Training
by darkwhitewolf
Summary: Even the deadliest of mercs need a few weeks' training to get used to TF Industries' way of doing things, and that's just enough time for one Spy-to-be to develop feelings for a coworker that are contrary to protocol.
1. Chapter 1

His eyes flew open.

Damn.

He had trained himself for years to wake up at exactly 5:17 AM, so as to allow the exact amount of time necessary for his morning routine and get him out the door by a quarter to six. Twenty-eight minutes. His eyelids were his own personal alarm clock, twitching apart at just the right moment.

The rest of his body, however, still wanted to sleep. Not wanting his eyes to drift back to the closed position, he blinked a few times and shifted his gaze—WHAT? Within a moment, he was on his feet, fists raised and knees bent. Where was he?

Oh. Right. He straightened, feeling a bit embarrassed. He had forgotten about the new job. With his eyes scoping the unfamiliar room, he scowled. He would have to slightly alter his morning routine, as there didn't seem to be a bathroom adjoining his sleeping quarters. Sighing, he grabbed his toiletry kit and put his hand on the doorknob. Ever so slowly, he turned and pulled, being sure not to make a sound. There was a bathroom just a few doors down, and the hallway was totally devoid of people. Excellent. He dashed in silently and began his morning ablutions, meticulously brushing his teeth, shaving, and scrubbing his face. When he was done, he examined himself in the mirror and poked critically at his hair. Being irresistibly sexy, by his estimation, was part of the job. He was about to head back when he noticed footsteps approaching. Oh, he definitely hadn't made time in his morning for this.

When the tall stranger opened the bathroom door and walked in, the room must have seemed empty. He didn't look up at the man on the ceiling, gripping a water pipe with his hands and bracing himself against the wall. The hiding man watched the stranger scratch the back of his head, yawn, and walk straight past the mirrors without so much as glancing at one. Unbelievable. The stranger's height was making him uncomfortable, but he knew his fears of the other man's head bumping his stomach were totally unfounded. Hopefully, he would see the man enter a stall and then he would be able to swiftly and quietly make his exit and complete his preparations in his room.

Having formed his plan, he concentrated on watching the conspicuously shirtless stranger, noting muscular, scarred shoulders and a lean torso. He bit his lip, forcing himself to concentrate on escape. He had long embraced his bisexuality, especially since his job sometimes required seducing the enemies of both genders, but now was not the time to admire this—this—this probably dangerous man, probably trained to kill, possibly trained in deception, as he was…Maybe they'd have something in common, he mused. He was so busy concentrating on not concentrating on the stranger that he didn't realize what would happen when he watched the man stretch, bringing his lean, muscled arms forward, clasping them together, and raising them up—

"Merde!" He swore as the hands connected with his stomach, causing his knees to buckle and dropping his body from the ceiling. His hands lost their grip on the water pipe, and he fell right on top of the stranger, who was letting out some curses of his own. The dark glasses that the lanky, bare-chested man had been wearing flew off at the impact, and revealed deep brown eyes that the fallen Frenchman's met with his blue ones for a moment before he hastily covered the stranger's face with his hands.

"What the bloody 'ell?" The man underneath him thrashed and grabbed his arms, and he was forced to slide off of him and out of sight. As the stranger stood up, he came up from behind and covered those chocolate eyes again with one hand, wrapping the other arm around that bare torso so that, he reasoned, the tall man wouldn't struggle free again. That didn't stop him, though, from struggling, and the Frenchman took a moment to appreciate the bare back hitting against him and the warm chest straining against his grip before he hissed into his ear, "Stop writhing around like an imbecile, monsieur, and listen to me."

"The hell are you, some kinda bathroom rapist?" The stranger snarled in response, remaining tense but struggling less.

"Quoi—non! Of course not! I would have no need for such tactics," he retorted, offended. "My face, however, is not for your eyes. I will walk you to a stall, you will enter without looking at me, and then I will take my leave. Can your half-wit brain understand all that?"

"Under—? No, so sorry mate, I don't understand. Your face ain't for my eyes? What, yer ugly mug gonna turn me to stone?"

There was indignation in that voice, but did he sound…amused? "Very funny, but I assure you that I am quite lovely. My line of work simply insists that my face be kept a secret, you see. It would be quite a travesty, would it not, to be fired on one's first day because some ridiculous half-clothed man couldn't keep his mouth shut?" Though, if he was honest, he did want to comb his hair and put on cologne still, and change from his silk pajamas into his new uniform, which he had had fitted as soon as they'd mailed it to him. But he was rarely honest.

"Hot damn, you're pretentious sounding." Definitely amused. Was that a chuckle he heard? He felt it, a slight quiver of the stomach, a shake of the ribs, the skin shifting under his fingers—"Who the 'ell are you, wanker?"

"Renaud—Ah, that is to say, a—a Spy. I am a Spy." He coughed; he wasn't used to following all the notes in that damn long memo about code of conduct while on the job. He had hoped to maintain a sneaky, subtle silence for the first few days, at least, while getting used to the new gig. No such luck. "And as a Spy, I must insist that you forget what you have seen of my face and let me be on my way."

And with that, he flung the stranger forward and dashed out the door to his room. As he ran, he heard the other man swear as he hit the bathroom wall, but was that? Yes, he was still chuckling. The Spy scowled, unhappy with himself that he had managed to break the rules so early, silently berating himself as he slipped into his shirt, giving his lower half a quick, reproachful glare as he zipped up his pants. Grabbing his belt, he glanced up at himself in the mirror. What did he care, he mused as he buckled it, grabbing his tie next, with more fervor. What did their silly codes and regulations mean to him, he fumed, looping and knotting, what did they mean to him, Renaud Corbet, teller of lies, keeper of secrets, he who slips through the cracks? Yes, what, he thought as he ran a comb across his head, to a man who possesses skill, strength, and sex appeal? What, he continued, tousling his dark hair so it was just so, to a man who could be any man he wanted? Who could kill a man, smoke a cigarette, and get laid all in the same room within the time of thirty minutes? (That had, indeed, happened once—poor girl never realized it was he that killed her drug lord bastard of a father. The old man had good taste in smokes, though.)

He pulled on his dark, pinstriped jacket, grabbed his gloves, and surveyed the full effect in the mirror. Mmm, yes. He deemed himself both edible and predatory, ready to seduce or threaten; he was ready for the job—almost. He sighed as he reached for the mask and winced as he pulled it over his perfect hair. This would almost certainly not look good on him…

Oh.

Never mind.

Dressed from head to toe in well-fitted, pinstriped black, he already looked dapperly dangerous, and the mask perfected the look. A beautiful mystery, a man with something to hide, a creature of the shadows with just a few pinpricks—and pinstripes—of light peeking through. He stopped himself short and remembered the stranger's words: "Hot damn, you're pretentious sounding." Perhaps he was.

He struck one final roguish pose in the mirror and grinned widely.

"Hot damn."


	2. Chapter 2

Talking to the Administrator was like looking into some sort of gender-bending mirror. She was beautifully terrifying and frighteningly gorgeous. In any other situation, Renaud would have flirted with her mercilessly, but she was his employer and, as it turned out, had much more power over certain things—such as how much longer he was allowed to stay breathing—than he had previously realized.

She also knew how to run a meeting with an assassin. She kept things short and sweet, saying of the rules simply: "I hope you have read the information we sent you. If you fail to comply with any of the items listed in your contract, we will be forced to terminate it." She took a moment to take a long drag from what looked, from the stack of boxes in her wastebasket, like her 58th cigarette that day before clarifying: "Violently." He smirked, pretending to be amused rather than worried about the way he had already broken their rules, already a candidate for violent termination.

Finally, she gave him his weapons, saying that they would go over the use of them the next day, and that until then, he should see what could find out. With that, she turned her chair around briskly, clearly ending the meeting. The man, however, looked at the strange assortment in his hands and refused to leave.

"Excuse me madame, but what," he asked, "are these?" He was pointing to what looked like a watch and a cigarette case.

For this question he earned a glare. "We will go over use of the weapons tomorrow, Mr. Corbet," she repeated icily. "Until then, you should see what you can find out." She didn't turn around this time, but the icy, penetrating glare she shot him was more than enough to tell him that the meeting was over.

He slid all the weapons in their proper places—gun in its holster, knife in his pants pocket, cigarette case in his jacket pocket, and watch on his wrist—as he walked. Wafts of the scent of something like food drew him through the halls; his encounter with the shirtless stranger that morning had robbed him of the time he usually used to eat breakfast, and a quick look at the scale as he was getting dressed had showed him that he was a few pounds under his optimum weight. A meal would be fantastic, something real and tangible to sooth his peeved reaction to these so-called weapons. A watch, he thought, shaking his head, and a cigarette case. What sort of weapons company was this?

Still following his nose, he found himself in front of double wooden doors with slats that allowed the smell of beef and grease to come through. He sniffed in derision. Weapons that were not weapons, food that was not food—he certainly hoped that there were other dishes than the American slime he could detect, but he kept his expectations low as he pushed into the high-ceilinged, oily, unfortunately orangish-yellow room full of—

Merde.

He had forgotten that there were other people here.

Scattered around six wooden tables were five other men, and he realized that there must be more coming that had yet to meet with the Administrator. At least there was still one empty table. He catalogued them in his mind as he headed towards a counter that seemed to be the source of the vaguely appetizing fumes—a well-groomed dark haired man with glasses who poked at his peas with clinical precision, a grinning fellow hiding behind goggles and a hard hat, a dark-skinned eyepatched drunk who was already swaying in his seat and talking to his corn, and two boys who seemed to be twins, sitting at separate tables but glaring at each other incessantly, apparently locked in a contest to see who could devour the most of this slop.

Peas, corn, slimy mashed potatoes, and meat he didn't care to identify. Fantastic. He poked at the offerings skeptically with the serving spoon before forcing himself to take a bit of each. He measured out the portions carefully, not wanting to eat any more of this slop than he needed. If this was the sort of thing he could expect, he would have to take up cooking…He turned to find his empty table—wait, where was it? There was the glasses, the hardhat, one juvenile, the cyclops, the other boy, and—

Only years of training and a great degree of pride stopped him from dropping his plate.

Instead, his mouth twitched slightly in annoyance at the fact that there, at the table he had called his, was the stranger from this morning. He had put on a shirt, though the Spy noticed that he left several buttons undone, along with a vest and a hat that was, by all French standards, ridiculous. If there was one thing he knew, it was that this job had nothing to do with silly hats. The man was also still wearing his dark glasses, which stared in the Spy's direction for a moment, and he was struck with the wild hope that his mask would successfully hide his identity—but a moment later, the man's rough face split into a toothy grin and Renaud knew he'd been recognized.

"Well, look who it is. Ain't been fired yet, have ya?" Unlike the Spy, the rough-voiced man didn't have any of the cafeteria slop, which explained how he had managed to take the Spy's table before him, and was instead gnawing on jerky from a plastic bag. Even while eating, his face was alive with amusement.

"Non," Renaud retorted, "but I am thinking of quitting. I did not know I was coming to work for a company so desperate as to hire convicts." The Australian's response was to laugh again and gesture to the seat across from him.

"Siddown, Reno."

Renaud's tray fell to the table with a clatter, and in a moment he was leaning forward in the chair, hissing at the other man in a menacing voice. "I hope that was not a poor attempt to call me by my given name, you beef-sucking savage."

He was close enough to see brown eyes blink in confusion behind giant aviators as the man they belonged to completely missed the point. "That's your name, ain't it? You only said it the once, and it was weird and French…"

"I shall not correct your horrid pronunciation," raged Renaud as quietly as he could, trying to ignore the looks they were getting from the other tables, "because you should have no knowledge of my name whatsoever. I suggest that if you want to keep up this chuckle-buddy demeanor you forget what you heard and what you saw this morning, for if you repeat it to anyone I will be forced to cut you open slowly with safety scissors, dress all your internal organs up as princesses, make you act out a tea party with your own guts, and then make love to whomever it is you care for most dearly on top of your dead, eviscerated body. Do we have an understanding?"

"Explain the bit about the princesses again."

The Spy narrowed his eyes.

With a snort, the other man toned his beaming smile down to a business-like smirk. "You got it, _Spy_." Now it was Renaud's turn to smirk.

"'Ey, whatta you two cockfags doin'?" The two turned their heads to see the identical boys standing next to each other with matching sneers. "Whisperin' sweet nothin's in each other's ears or some shit?"

Renaud realized that he was leaning rather close, his nose just a centimeter away from his companion's. He straightened his back and his tie, while replying nonchalantly, "Ah, I am not much for, as you say, 'sweet nothings.' The reason I am so close with this man is that I am, in fact—" he shot half a glance at the man across the table—"a kind of bathroom rapist." With these last words, he put on his creepiest smile and looked straight into the young men's faces. He thought he heard the sound of a man choking on jerky come from behind him.

"The hell?" The two American kids shared a confused look while the Spy raked their bodies with his gaze, making a show of breathing heavily and wetting his lips.

"Indeed," he purred, "I have already taken this man behind me, and you are next!"

"You can't be serious." The juvenile voice feigned bravado, but Renaud could see them swallowing uncertainly.

"Couldn't be more serious," growled an unexpected voice from behind him. The Australian had pulled his hat over his face with one hand and was gripping the table with the other. "'S'probly the worst experience I've had in me whole bloody life. Only just stopped crying 'fore I came in here, and now—" Was he shaking? Damn, he was good—"Now it's just gettin' worse. Better be careful when you use the bathroom, mates. You don't wanna end up like me."

The two teenagers were no longer able to speak. Time for the killing blow. Renaud plucked a piece of jerky from the plastic bag on the table and began rolling it between his lips, never taking his eyes off the two boys—and with that, they were off like a shot, through the double doors, shouting something that sounded like "Freaks! Fags!"

As soon as they were gone, Renaud and his tablemate burst into cackling roars of laughter. The shaking, he realized, was not a result of great acting skills, but uncontrollable snickers.

"Reckon they're gonna start goin' to the loo in pairs?" The other man was grabbing another piece of jerky and still grinning uncontrollably. The Spy picked a second piece for himself, finding it much more palatable than the cafeteria slop.

"You are suggesting that they don't already?" Not that he knew anything about the two young Americans, or about his new tablemate, but he had always enjoyed jokes at the expense of the weaker-willed.

"Poor bastards. Almost feel sorry for them."

"We are here to learn to fight each other, non? We should be prepared for attacks from all sides." He smirked as he finished his second stick of jerky.

"'At's why I said 'almost.' Lil' wankers oughta learn how to fend for themselves, not to mention to have a little respect for fellow professionals. Like me right now, for example. Sure, Spy, you can have some of that jerky that I killed and dried myself, why the hell not?"

Renaud, who was picking up his third piece, looked at it with new appreciation. "You made this yourself? Not bad, bushman. It's almost as if you have a skill for killing things—almost." He eyed the other man's uniform as he thoughtfully chewed. "What is your specialty, exactly? Surely it is not culinary."

"I'm a Sniper by trade, mate," he replied, adjusting his wide-brimmed hat. Suddenly, leaning in a bit, he added in a low voice: "And Gavin by name."

Renaud's eyes registered shock for a moment. "Why are you telling me this? Surely your contract—"

"My contract don't mention nothing about names," Gavin insisted, "and besides—we're even now. I just lessened my chance of playing baby-sheila games with my own slimy bits. Not that there was much of a chance of that anyway."

"I assure you, Gavin"—he made sure to pronounce it with as much of a French accent as possible, so that it sounded like he was saying "Ga-VON;" if they were getting even then he demanded revenge for the horrible way the Australian had mangled his name—"while I do appreciate a good laugh, you must not mistake my threat earlier for a joke. I am more than ready to cut you open like a Cornish game hen." With that, he finished his bit of jerky and skipped right past the other food he'd collected to his after-dinner cigarette, bringing out his new case.

"Oh, I don't doubt you'd be itching for a fight. I just know I could take you, you puny little piker." For once, the Spy ignored the jab, staring at the inside of his Mann Co. cigarette case. There were cigarettes, yes, on one side, but the other half had two buttons and a screen, and was labeled "SpyTron 2000." Quoi?

"What's wrong, outta smokes?" Renaud ignored him and watched the screen, which kept flashing the same two words in fifty languages, most of which he knew: "KIT EMPTY." The bottom left button was flashing red, as if it wanted him to press it. Having not yet gained all the suspicion he would later learn he needed at this place, he simply reached out a gloved finger and pushed it.

"Holy Dooly!" Gavin yelped, jumping back, as the device emitted a strange yellow light that seemed to be scanning Gavin up and down. "What the bloody piss is that?"

"I haven't a clue," Renaud admitted. The light disappeared after a moment, and the screen provided just four helpful words: "SUCCESSFULLY STORED AS 8."

He was still wondering at his bizarre new weapon hours later, near the day's end, as he was preparing for his second night in this strangest of places. Aside from each recruit's mandatory meet with the Administrator, they had been given the day to get used to their new home, new co-workers, and new weapons. The Spy had spent much of the day rereading his contract, spending an especially long time trying to work out a loophole in Item 274-K: "The recruit shall not, under any circumstances, forge any bonds of companionship with another recruit during the three-week training period. At training's end, he may form friendships with fellow team members, but any sort of relationship with any member of the opposing team is not allowed. Romance of all kinds is strictly forbidden."

He recalled his laughter-filled exchange with the Sniper at lunch that day. He was already doing, as Gavin would say, a piss-poor job at complying with Item 274-K. He would just have to be careful—his specialty—and hope that they were assigned to the same teams. Or, if things went especially horribly, he could always kill him. He had killed friends once or twice before; it was a messy business, and regrettable, but if he was protecting his own life…

Depressing thoughts would get him nowhere, he decided, opting to distract himself with his strange new weaponry. He had worked out how the watch worked by fiddling absently with the buttons as he reread his contract, and was already excited to try out his temporary invisibility on the battlefield. But the cigarette case he had yet to figure out. The screen now showed a single number—8. He tried pushing the middle button, but nothing happened. It would have to be the far right button, then. Taking a deep breath, totally oblivious as to what might happen, he reached forward with a trembling finger and pressed it.

For a moment, he thought the thing had exploded—there was smoke everywhere, and he felt a foreign searing sensation all throughout his body. He leapt to his feet, eyes screwed up, and waved at the fumes, coughing. "What in the name of—."

Cher Dieu.

That was not his voice.

Hesitantly, he let his eyes open and, without looking down at himself, shuffled towards the mirror.

Gavin was looking back at him.

He was an exact replica—vest, silly hat, aviators and all. Even his voice. What was this device, he wondered, staring down at the little silver rectangle nestled in big, rough, hands that weren't his. Gavin's hands. How powerful was it? How accurate? He had to check, he told himself, as part of his duty as a Spy. Everyone had to check their weapons, he reasoned as he unbuttoned the Sniper's shirt and shrugged it and the vest off at the same time.

His breath caught as he glanced in the mirror. Indeed, he thought weakly, that looked about right. There were the scars he had noted in the bathroom—the thin "X" on the left pectoral, the healed bullet hole through the right shoulder, and a single, long slice that went from his neck to his navel. He ran his fingers over the unfamiliar blemishes and shivered. This was, without a doubt, the weirdest thing he'd ever done.

Not entirely unpleasant, though, he thought as he rubbed the spot on the left of his neck where the biggest scar began. He slid his thumb down the length of it, remembering strangely when his own arms had been wrapped around this very same body. Letting his mind wander, he almost didn't notice when his thumb kept going, down to the end of the scar, past the belly button, all the way to the waist of the Sniper's pants, where it caught for a moment, tugging at the fabric.

Renaud froze. The device had managed to flawlessly replicate the bits of Gavin's upper body that it could not see, so why not the lower bits? The curiosity was almost unbearable. His fingers rubbed the belt buckle, but before he could unlatch it, something stopped him.

It seemed like…cheating.

Cheating at what, he couldn't say, but there was something decidedly not right about it. After having traded names, food, jokes and awful pronunciations with Gavin, it seemed unfair to participate in something the Sniper wouldn't be able to match him in. And it would absolutely ruin the moment if and when they ever—

What?

If they ever…

Filled with a sudden fury, he pulled the cigarette case out again, fumbling with his foreign fingers, and jabbed the right button ferociously. A plume of smoke and a light show later, he was himself again. The strange clothes, the stolen scars, they were all gone—but that tickling little thought was still there.

If they ever…

"Merde," he declared decidedly, glad to sound like himself again. He sank back into his bunk, his head full of angry voices, unfriendly reminders of things he didn't want to be true: "The recruit shall not, under any circumstances, forge any bonds of companionship with another recruit during the three-week training period," and "If you fail to comply with any of the items listed in your contract, we will be forced to terminate it. Violently." This was stupid; he'd known this—this backwoods bushman, this laugh-happy fool for less than twenty-four hours; he couldn't actually be attracted to him. Not so quickly. But even as he thought it, a kinder voice entered his thoughts, pronouncing his name wrong, whispering jokes in a low growl, and laughing. Always laughing.

"Romance of all kinds is strictly forbidden."

Renaud scowled. He never had been much for rules.


	3. Chapter 3

Renaud was beginning to suspect that TF Industries was founded with the express purpose of screwing with his mind. When he showed up for his meeting with the Administrator the next morning, ten minutes earlier than the one he'd had the day before, another man was already there, smoking a cigarette and looking impatient.

He looked just like Renaud.

For a moment, he thought that the other man must have used a disguise kit like his own, but then he realized that despite the identical uniform and the striking physical similarity, there were minor differences: the stranger was missing the mole that Renaud had to the right of his nose, Renaud didn't have quite as many frown lines, their eyebrows were different thicknesses, and the other man, when he talked, revealed a left incisor made of gold.

"Well, well," sneered his new twin, "it looks as if we can finally begin. " A disapproving sniff came from foreign nostrils, just a bit wider than Renaud's own. "Mon dieu, did you roll in a fermented garden before you came here, or do you always smell like a horny widow?"

Renaud stiffened, caught between fury and embarrassment. Maybe he'd gone a little heavy on the cologne that morning, sure, but he always bought the finest, manliest scents. He hated this guy already. "My apologies," he growled. "The scent must have rubbed off on me last night from _your__mother_."

"Oh my," drawled the doppelganger, "did you come up with that one all by yourself? How cute. Maybe we should speak in French, since you clearly just started learning English yesterday."

Renaud's mouth flew open, ready to spew out a retort, but before he could get the words out, he was interrupted by the Administrator.

"That's quite enough, gentlemen." She took a long drag from her cigarette, and Renaud was suddenly conscious of the fact that he was the only one in the room not smoking. "You can save all that hate for the battlefield. Though the two of you are both acting as Spies for TF Industries, you will each have a different employer—either Reliable Excavation Demolition or Builders League United—and, as members of separate teams, fight to the death."

In all honesty, Renaud didn't quite understand how they could work for two different companies while being employed by the same company, but he didn't care. Some people shot daggers with their glares, but he and his fellow Spy were meeting each other's eyes with far more inventively violent imaginations, and Renaud's fingers twitched under his gloves, already eager to take this man apart, not afraid to get blood on his hands—or even his suit. He could see his gory sentiments reciprocated in the other Spy's gaze, and they barely heard the speech the Administrator gave about their guns until she said "You will compete—" and suddenly all eyes and ears were on her. Unperturbed, she went on to explain that to test and ensure their weapons proficiency, the two of them would engage in competitive target practice, first with their guns and then with their knives. She did not mention the other two weapons, nor did she mention any sort of prize or reward going to the winner of the competition, but there was no need. Their mutual hate fueled both Spies' grim determination.

At first, the shooting range presented them with conventional, circular targets, but soon they were shooting at cutouts shaped like people, and then those targets began to move, and grow smaller, and by the end, some ninety minutes later, they were firing at small objects that flew through the air at amazing speeds. Anyone watching would have been amazed at their shooting skills—except, perhaps, the most skilled of Snipers—but each Spy let out a string of French expletives if a single target was missed, and Renaud grumbled and hissed obscenities from the moment his opponent finished until he himself shot down his final target forty-five seconds later. He had slightly more luck with the knife competition, in which the targets were all shaped like human backs but moved so quickly that by the end both competitors were out of breath. Renaud still managed to spit out nasty foreign words at his rival, who this time had finished a mere 12 seconds earlier but was still wearing the smuggest face that he had ever seen.

"Not bad, gentlemen," sniffed the Administrator critically, "now, on to your last two weapons." Renaud glanced down at the watch on his wrist, wondering how she could possibly test their proficiency in cloaking or disguising themselves at a shooting range. "I slipped out during your little game and briefed the other sixteen trainees on their weapons, and set them to similar tasks. They are scattered around this shooting range, engaged in contests of their own. You will use your cloaking device to find them without their knowing it and record their identities in your disguise kit. You have, I assume, discovered how to use your cloaking device and disguise kit?" Both Spies gave a single, emphatic nod. "How many disguises have each of you stored? Show them to me."

Twin plumes of smoke and flashes of light erupted on the range. Renaud was delighted to discover that his doppelganger had also only scanned a single disguise; his was a large fellow wearing a gas mask that made it impossible to talk. "That's a nice look for you," Renaud sneered in Gavin's voice, laughing Gavin's laugh when his opponent's only retort was a muffled, incomprehensible yell. Furious, the other Spy switched back, and the Administrator motioned to Renaud to follow suit.

"In the future, it will be necessary not only to use the disguise kit to change your appearance, but to use your own skills as a Spy to imitate the person you are impersonating," she explained. "What have you two learned about the men behind your disguises?"

"With all due respect, madame, are you certain that his is a man?" Renaud asked, grinning at his rival's spluttering reaction.

"A valid question," the Administrator agreed solemnly, turning on the other Spy. "Well?"

"As the person himself—or herself as it very well may be—was unable to talk in this getup, I was unable to discern anything about him or her, aside from his or her obvious employment at TF Industries," he hissed through gritted teeth.

Oh, Renaud was enjoying this.

"You mean you didn't check after you put on the disguise? Not very thorough of you, monsieur." He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and took a long drag with his eyes closed before continuing. "My disguise came from a Sniper, an Australian man by the name of Gavin. He makes his own jerky, laughs at everyone and everything, and seems to possess a remarkable sense of professionalism and fairness despite having an accent that abuses every word that comes out of his mouth." He raised his eyes to meet the Administrator's own. "How did I do?"

She didn't smile, of course. But the single eyebrow that she raised seemed to approve of his information, of the Spy skill it evidenced—he didn't feel the need to tell her that his intelligence came from conversation rather than observation. "Excellent," she acknowledged, her voice still monotone, "now, both of you, get to work." And before the last word was out of her mouth, they had disappeared from sight.

Between the bright lights that the scanning part of the disguise kit emitted and the limited amount of time given by the cloaking mechanism, cataloguing each trainee proved to be no easy task. It didn't help that the shooting range was deceptively enormous, practically a maze. At one point, even though he had no need to find them, he stumbled upon the pair of Snipers. They sat next to each other in a tall wooden tower, firing at human-shaped targets down below. Renaud could tell right away that Gavin was winning. He was plugging away mercilessly, managing a headshot almost every time. With his cloaking device activated, the Spy crept up next to him to watch up close for a minute.

It was breathtaking.

Renaud had always considered himself a pretty good shot, but Gavin was in a different league all together. His finger barely paused between pulls on the trigger finger, as it took him only a second to take perfect aim. The Spy let his eyes wander over the Sniper's concentrated, grimacing face, his tense arms, his fingers clutching tightly at the rifle—it wouldn't occur to him until hours later how bizarre it was that he recognized Gavin right away, even though he was sitting right next to the other Sniper, especially since he had almost mistaken the other Spy for an exact physical replica of himself. His eyes flicked away from Gavin for a moment and he saw an actual physical replica of himself—a target shaped like him, a Spy. A moment later it was nothing more than shattered pieces of shrapnel and—Renaud chekced—the Sniper's facial expression still didn't change a mite.

Though he would never admit it, Renaud had hesitated every time he had come across a Sniper-shaped target. He supposed that made him bad at his job—his job! He had almost forgotten that he had to beat that ridiculous, disgusting other Spy at this weapons game. He ran off again into the maze, letting his cloaking device charge and wondering why he was so short of breath before he started running.

Despite his Sniper-watching detour, Renaud still made it back to where he had started first. It was a full two minutes before the other Spy returned, and though the Administrator claimed that their competition was a tie because one of them had proved more proficient in two of the weapons and the other had proved more proficient in the other two, Renaud decided that he had won, since he had been only fifty-seven seconds behind his opponent in the first two rounds and he had been two minutes ahead in the last round. His doppelganger was sufficiently furious to please him, and, ego properly inflated, he strolled away from the shooting range with the confidence of ten men after hearing the Administrator say something like "sapping tomorrow." He didn't care; the other Spy was a sap _today_. Ooh, that was good. He'd have to remember to use that one.

He was so preoccupied with his triumph that he didn't notice the footsteps behind him until they stopped, and suddenly a pair of hands was covering his eyes. He cried out involuntarily, grabbed at the hands, and writhed for a moment—then suddenly he was still. He smirked. He recognized these hands.

"I know that it is you, Gavin. You have as much stealth as a drunken elephant."

He felt a soft warm laugh in his ear, followed by a low growl: "That so, Reno? Then how come you flailed around like a castrated rabbit?"

He decided, as the hands left his face, not to ask whether or not Gavin actually knew what a castrated rabbit flailed around like from experience, because he didn't want to know. "Simply a precautionary measure, I assure you. I am still a bit on edge from today's contest."

"Contest? Is that what that was supposed to be?" The Sniper walked up next to Renaud, hands in his pockets and usual grin plastered on his face. The Spy wondered idly where that smile had gone when he was on the shooting range. "That wasn't no contest. That was a massacre. Other bloke's pathetic. Can't wait to get on these teams and actually blow his brains out." Yup, still grinning.

"I could not agree with you more. Were it to come to a battle between Spies, I am sure that I would win." He shot Gavin a little smile. "Whichever team we oppose will stand no chance."

"Damn straight. Won't see either of us coming." Renaud was considering mentioning that he had, in fact, seen Gavin at the range and just leaving out the part where he had stared at him, but before he had the chance, the Sniper asked "Oy, Spy, how well d'you know your way around this place?"

"Ah—I was given a map of the facilities before my arrival. I looked it over once or twice and, obviously, memorized the entire thing. Why do you ask?"

"Trying to find a phone booth," Gavin explained. "Did your map say where that might be?"

"Why, trying to call your mother and tell her how well the first day at deadly mercenary training camp went?" Renaud smirked.

"Yes, actually," the Sniper grumbled, "something like that. Got a problem, mate?"

The Spy marveled momentarily at his immense skill for talking himself into holes. "Ah—alors—oui—that is to say, non, I have no problem, but yes, there is one close by. Follow me." He strode swiftly across the sandy grounds towards a little paved road, trying to keep ahead of the Sniper so that either he could be slightly less embarrassed or his companion would have to hurry to catch up to him. As it turned out, his strategy failed entirely because of Gavin's ridiculously long legs.

They walked in silence for a few moments before the Sniper jerked his head at the road and asked, "We allowed to go down this? Looks like it's heading out."

Renaud couldn't stop his eyebrow from raising. "Allowed? Suddenly caring a lot about the rules, monsieur Sniper. Don't tell me you're afraid?"

"I'm not afraid," Gavin insisted, "but I've always paid attention to the rules. It's only the professional thing to do. Don't follow the rules, you get fired. I just happen to need fewer rules than you."

"Indeed," Renaud mused, "I have quite a lot of rules. One of the advantages of being a Spy, however, is that it is much easier to get away with not following them." Without another word, he stepped nimbly onto the asphalt, shaking the dust from his expensive shoes as he continued to walk.

"Think you're too good for rules, eh?" The Sniper growled, still walking in the dirt next to the road.

"I must," he said simply. "How else could I lie and pretend and fool the world for a profession?" Suddenly, he and Gavin both stopped. The road here crossed a small gorge containing a little river, and if they wanted to continue, the Sniper would have to step up and cross the bridge. Renaud reached a gloved hand out to him, adding, "I assure you, traveling on this road is absolutely allowed, as long as we return."

Gavin looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Weren't you just saying that whole bit about lying and pretending? Why should I trust you?"

"A wonderful, soul-searching question. It is also one that we do not have time for. Hurry up, bushman. I'm hungry and I want to get to the mess hall before all the edible slop is gone." Without waiting for consent, he pulled his travelling companion up onto the road and across the bridge.

The Sniper, surprisingly, had no objections. After they crossed, he simply looked back, snickered, and muttered something like "Ain't we the worst pair of delinquents you ever set eyes on." He barely noticed that Renaud was still dragging him, and a few moments later, the pair of them stopped.

"Et voila," the Spy waved a hand dramatically at the payphone in the middle of the desert. There were a few other deserted-looking storefronts, but this phone, he was sure, still worked.

"Thanks, mate." Gavin grinned. "I owe you one." Renaud just nodded. The two men stood there, the distance between them just enough to be uncomfortable.

Oh, he hated awkward silences.

Finally, the Spy coughed and the Sniper gestured to the phone, "Well, I'm gonna call my mum now, so you can just…Just head on back, yeah?"

"O-of course." He didn't want to go back. He had enjoyed the walk, and going the distance back by himself, back to the place of confusion and disgusting food and the other Spy with a golden tooth, and without even someone like a friend going with him—that sounded awful.

But he had no choice. And so, with the ever-louder shouts of Gavin speaking to his parents booming in the background, he was forced to make the trek back alone and content himself with the time they had spent together on the way there.

It wasn't enough, he decided.


	4. Chapter 4

To say that the next few days were uneventful would be blatantly false, but not once did they rise above the already set level of violence and unpredictability. Each day, Renaud woke up, got ready, went to a training session with the Administrator and the other Spy, ate lunch with the Sniper, and then trained by himself to prepare for the next day. In the evenings, he generally supped alone in his room and thought about the strange new job and what he should do about what he called the 274-K situation.

In other words, he thought about Gavin.

They spent their lunchtimes cracking jokes, often at the expense of their fellow trainees or the provided food—both men continued to consist on the jerky and other dried goods that the Sniper brought in. They occasionally talked shop, but warily, and often sat through long bouts of simple, peaceful silence as they chewed. If they saw each other outside of the lunchroom, there would be a wave or a nod, but nothing more.

Renaud had no idea what was going on behind those aviators. Gavin always seemed happy to be around him, but Gavin seemed happy about everything. He had seen the Sniper speak to members of other classes as well, although not nearly as much as he talked to—his friend?—the Spy. Zut alors, Renaud didn't even know if they were technically considered friends yet, if he should start worrying about repercussions or not.

It was with thoughts like these that he was occupied on the night of their sixth day there, when his musings were interrupted by a knock on his door. He was about to demand that the caller identify him or herself, but before he got the chance the door swung open and there, standing in the hall with an awkwardly large wooden box, was the Sniper in question.

"G'day, Reno! I brought—"

"You know the purpose of knocking on a door, non?" The Spy interrupted drily. The sudden visit by the man occupying his thoughts had caught him off guard, especially since he had never told Gavin where his room was. He did a quick scan of his surroundings, hoping that nothing was too messy or dirty—which, of course, was ridiculous, because he always made sure that his bedroom was as well-groomed as he was—suddenly he wondered how he looked and began straightening his tie and smoothing out tiny wrinkles in his pants.

"Sure I do," the Sniper retorted, plopping down to sit on Renaud's bed without asking permission and grinning his usual grin. "You knock to let your target know you're coming for them, give them a heads up so they can escape. Usually I just skip it, but since you're such a fine upstanding bloody gentleman I figured I'd be polite." Renaud decided that now was not the time to point out the actual purpose or procedure of knocking, and the Sniper continued, "Now shut your gob for a minute; I brought you something." He rummaged in the large wooden box and pulled out a small cardboard box that he handed to the Spy.

Curious as to the box's contents and the Sniper's intentions, Renaud opened the gift and started, shooting Gavin a confused look. "These are…these are…"

"Cuban cigars, yeah. My mum sent me a care package with a load of good stuff in it, but I guess she forgot I quit smoking a few years back. Figured I'd give them to you since I always see you with a cig in your mouth, and since I still owed you one for helping me find that phone."

"Merci…" Renaud murmured, picking a cigar up and twirling it around. He usually only bought cigarettes, which were lither and more fitting with his image, but these were high quality Cuban cigars brought to him as a gift by a man who had captured his interest, so he decided to make an exception, just this once.

"No problem, mate." Gavin beamed. "Well, go on. Gonna try one?"

The Spy raised a single eyebrow. "It will not bother you, even though you have quit? I would not want to tempt you." Oh, there he was, lying again.

The Sniper shook his head. "Nah, I been clean long enough I should be alright. 'Sides, if I don't get to smoke these buggers myself, I'd like to at least see someone else enjoy them. "

"Very well," Renaud acquiesced with a strange, small, uncharacteristically nervous smile. As he lit the cigar, he felt something like the soft warm glow of the lighter flame reflected somewhere between his heart and his navel. Though he couldn't see them, it seemed that Gavin's eyes never left him as he put the lighter back in his pocked and took a long, deep drag from the cigar. Smoke issued out of the Spy's nostrils; he enjoyed the Sniper's gaze but was not quite able to meet it. He took another small puff and announced: "_Parfait_."

Gavin blinked, clearly bewildered. "Parfay? Ain't that some kind of ice cream thing girls eat? " Renaud could not actually dignify this question with a response, and instead gave him a look so surly that it made the Sniper laugh. "Guess not."

"It means 'perfect,' you great uncouth imbecile," Renaud corrected, trying to sounds stern but barely being able to hide his amusement.

"Aw, shucks, mate. Perfect? I don't think I'm all that." The Sniper's smile had never been wider.

"I was speaking, of course, of the cigar." Renaud closed his eyes, sucking in another thoughtful mouthful of smoke before looking up and adding, "Although you are not bad yourself, Gavin."

The Sniper's grin froze. He was clearly trying to seem nonchalant, as if the whole thing was still immensely funny to him, but Renaud could hear tenseness in his suddenly low voice when he asked "What's that's supposed to mean?"

"An excellent question." The small glow in Renaud's chest was starting to grow, not just larger, but fiercer. It was his turn to fix the Sniper with an unblinking stare, and while Gavin's eyes were still hidden behind tinted glass, the Spy could tell they were darting from side to side, trying to look at anything that wasn't the man in front of him. "What exactly do you think of me, Gavin?"

"What?" So the Sniper was confused. Well, Renaud was done with being confused. He was sick of this smirking, arm's-length game, and he wanted to know what was going on in the other man's head.

"You have an item in your contract, do you not, stating, among other things, that you are not to make friends during training?"

"Y-yeah…" Gavin's words were wary, "I saw something like that. Guess you have it, too?"

"Indeed." The Spy was still puffing on the cigar, trying to talk in a level voice and hide his frustration. "You know, of course, how I feel about rules like this, and I know how you feel about them as well."

"What are you getting at—"

"I don't give a damn about this silly rule. I would be perfectly comfortable with any kind of relationship we might have. You, on the other hand, like to play along with their little guidelines, and yet you spend much of your time conversing with me. What exactly am I to you, Gavin? A colleague, a friend, or—"

"Oh, that's it?" The Sniper interrupted, seeming momentarily relieved and then suddenly troubled. "You just wanted to know if we're friends? Thought that was obvious."

Obvious?

Of course, it was obvious. The cheerful conversations, the sharing of food, the trading of favors, the sudden visit and gift of fine cigars sent by the Sniper's mother all made it painfully obvious. So did the intense warmth he felt, which was calming back down to a contented glow, and the way they hadn't been able to take their eyes off of each other, and the way that Renaud was beginning to smile as he listened to Gavin finish talking, saying—

"We're not."

Renaud didn't notice his jaw hanging open stupidly, or his fingers becoming limp, or the cigar dropping to the ground. He didn't notice anything until the Sniper moved to pick up the dropped, smoking roll of tobacco, at which point he suddenly sprang for the cigar on the floor, diving out of his chair to snatch it back up and away from Gavin. "Oh? Aren't we? What's this, then?" He demanded, trying to shake the cigar unconcernedly in the Sniper's direction instead of letting his voice shake.

"Told you. I owed you one for helping me find the phone. Now we're even." Gavin's face was expressionless, the way he had seen it at the shooting range. "Same reason I gave you my name—'cause you gave me yours. I gave you food 'cause you made me laugh and I told you about my day when you told me about ours."

"_Exactement,_ that's—"

"Just simple trading. Equivalent exchange. Not friendship. That would be—"

"Unprofessional?" Renaud seethed, swooping next to the bed so that his face was just an inch from the Sniper's.

"_Yes,_" Gavin stressed. "Course it would be!"

"Why did you even talk to me, then, you insensitive barbarian? Why did you call me by my real name? All I wanted that first day was to be left alone!"

"Well I'm real sorry, princess, but I've been doing this job alone my whole life with only the occasional call to my parents reminding how to speak the bloody English language at all. Thought talking to someone might be a bit of fun is all."

"I see." The two were close enough that for the first time since their original encounter in the bathroom, Renaud could see Gavin's eyes. For the first time that night, the two were meeting each other's gazes without flinching. The warmth from before, however, had become a blaze of anger and shame. "So you thought you'd just get a bit of entertainment out of me, eh? Some sort of wisecrack whore you paid in jerky?"

"Oh come off it," Gavin snapped, starting to lose that expressionless cool. "Don't be such a drama queen! The hell did you think was happening? That I was blowing off the rules my first day? You didn't want to break them then either, you waffling wanker! But now, what, you're pissed off that I don't think we're best mates? What do you _want_?"

Renaud's breath caught in his throat. What did he want? His brain refused to formulate a response, his mouth for once failed to spin silken, safe lies, and his eyes decided of their own accord to take the grand tour of Gavin's body—those eyes, his face, shoulders, arms, torso, stomach, hips, long legs and the space in between them—by the time he worked his way back to the eyes, the look in them had changed from anger to shock. It was too late to come up with a clever retort or hide the way he felt. Gavin understood.

"Oh, _piss_," the Sniper breathed, his face reddening. "No, I, I don't—no. No, Reno, you're not—no. No." He stood as he stuttered, grabbing his large box and stumbling backwards towards the door. "God no."

Renaud was certain that he would come up with the right response just as Gavin left. Right after he walked out the door, he knew he would find the right words.

But he was wrong. Gavin walked out the door and it closed with an ominous thud, leaving Renaud alone with no idea of what to say, what to think, or what to do. He just sat there for an hour as the cigar in his hand dwindled away to nothing, leaving a pile of ash on the carpet below. Finally, a gunshot from outside roused him from his reverie. The only thing to do was to go back to work. Maybe then, at least, he would feel like a good shot. He no longer felt handsome or slick or clever or any of the other things he assured himself on a daily basis that he was. He just felt empty and alone.


	5. Chapter 5

He couldn't feel anything the next morning.

What had happened yesterday? He couldn't remember…something about Gavin, and—oh. He fervently hoped that those swirling images of smoke and angry eyes were remnants of a dream as he blinked and rubbed the crust out of his eyes. His trigger finger was sore, suggesting that he had spent the rest of yesterday at the shooting range, after—after—_fils__de__pute_.

There was a box of Cuban cigars on his table. It hadn't been a dream. He had indeed been that stupid, that open, that emotional, that incredibly foolish. He dragged himself upright and looked at himself in the mirror, groaning at the unmasked face that greeted him.

He was starting to hate that face. He hated the lines under his eyes that showed he was having trouble sleeping, hated the roots of his hair that were starting to show their natural colour after a week in this place, hated the lines on his forehead that made him feel old, the specks on his cheeks that made him feel young, the little mole to the right of his nose that was too distinctive, that rough place on the left of his chin that always itched and reminded him of weakness…

So this was Renaud Corbet, he mused. This pathetic lump of numbed feeling was what had become of the once mighty Spy. Or perhaps, he thought, looking back at his life, this is what he had always been, and he had fooled himself into thinking otherwise. Distant memories of crying over bodies and screaming at a tall man drifted through his mind and he shook his head in disgust. And now, what? He was beating himself up over some ridiculous Australian ruffian he'd met not seven days earlier? As much as he told himself he was slick, cool, unruffled, and professional, he knew none of those things were true. Not of Renaud Corbet.

God, he hated Renaud Corbet.

He struggled out of his rumpled silk pajamas and kept an eye on himself in the mirror as he changed. He was skinny, too—weak, pathetic, what else was new. Actually, he realized when he stepped on the small scale he kept under his desk, being this underweight was new. He had been eating less and less since he got here, not wanting to deal with the cafeteria slop. Just another thing to hate himself for; he wasn't even brave enough to eat food he didn't like, and depended on gifts and scraps from another man's meal.

As he pulled on his shoes he felt four sizes too small for everything.

He wasn't going to make it, he thought glumly as he pulled his tie around his neck. He was too frail, to fragile, he berated himself while pulling on his jacket. And this job—he stared at the pile of weapons that suddenly seemed like they would pull him down to the floor with their weight if he put them on his person—this job was going to kill him.

People like him, he realized as he picked up his gun, never survived wars. Before this job, he had lived on private, stand-alone commissions that required no long-term commitment, no personal involvement, and no rules other than his own, and he had been able to allow himself massive personal vacations to deal with the issues he could not allow to bleed into his work—he could have a fling, visit his mother's grave, or pull off a major bank robbery simply for his own amusement. There was no space here. Even during breaks, no real off time—not off from the fellow trainees who would be his teammates or the enclosing halls or the intimidating woman watching him. There was no room in this job for Renaud Corbet.

Renaud Corbet was not cut out for it, he decided as he slipped his knife into his pocket and reached across the desk for his cloaking device. Renaud Corbet couldn't do it.

Suddenly, he stopped short.

What the hell was he doing?

He shifted his hand to the right and grabbed his cigarette case, flipping it open almost carelessly. Stored in this tiny box were nine other identities—Scout, Soldier, Pyro, Demoman, Heavy, Engineer, Medic, Gav—no—Sniper, and the other Spy. Nine possible lives at his fingertips, nine different people he could become. If he could slip into other people's skins at a moment's notice, why not slip out of his own?

Yes, he thought, what really was Renaud Corbet, aside from a flawed, skinny body and a fading set of recollections? What did that slight skeleton and its carefully stored collection of past experiences have to do with his life in the here and now? He snatched for his mask and pulled it on with a fierceness he'd almost forgotten. It was cool and smooth—the way he would have to be, the way he could be, as soon as he stopped being Renaud Corbet.

He straightened the mask impatiently and looked in the mirror again. Much better. The lines under his eyes flowed with the contours of the mask, his hair had been engulfed, and the marks on his forehead were hidden, as was the tint of his cheeks, that mole near his nose, and all the distinguishing marks that made him anything other than the Spy.

The Spy backed up, surveyed his entire reflection, and suddenly began to smile. Slenderness? That would simply give him the ability to sneak more effectively. Memories of the past? Feelings for a certain Australian fool? He shed them like a snake sheds its old skin, emerging stronger, newer, shining. And that pesky, weak-minded personality? He wouldn't have to worry about that anymore, because he was done with being a person. Being a person was bad for business.

He grabbed his cloaking device and slapped it on his wrist, another implement that would help him in his ascension to superiority. He swept up his favourite handkerchief, considered throwing it away, but decided against it—why get rid of something useful just because it belonged to the man he used to be? Tucking it in his pocket, he let his eyes fall on the box of cigars. His first instinct was to throw them away, but he managed to stop himself. That would be the emotional, foolish thing to do. These were valuable items. Why not keep them? Not, he reminded himself sternly, for any sentimental purpose, but simply because he had them and saw no need to waste them. He slid a finger thoughtfully over the wooden lid, and the roughness against his skin made him shiver. No, that wouldn't do, he reprimanded himself, grabbing his gloves and pulling them on. He grabbed the box in a single unfeeling hand and shoved it to a corner of his desk where it would not distract or bother him. In the center of the desk he placed the weighty ream of papers that was his contract. Systematically, he yanked out every piece of paper that had that name written on it—"Renaud Corbet."

He flipped open his knife and cut carefully around the each instance of the name, leaving the rest of the contract intact and returning each punctured sheaf to its proper place. Out came the lighter, out came the flame, and in a moment, eleven tiny burning rolls of ash were sitting in the Spy's leather-sheathed palm. He looked at them for a disinterested moment before violently closing his fist and dropping the burnt black scraps in the trash bin.

The Spy was ready.

He strode through the halls with new power, brushing past other trainees without caring whether he bumped into them or not, smoking a cigarette in the cramped hallways even when he heard one of the Medics erupt into a coughing fit, and deliberately stepping on the toe of the other Spy's expensive shoe as he stepped into the Administrator's office.

"The real Spy is here," he announced, causing his older counterpart to spit French swears as he examined his scuffed shoe.

"You'd better be ready to back that statement up, _petit__con_." His older counterpart growled.

He was. Renaud Corbet had been a good shot. Renaud Corbet had been skilled in slinking around unnoticed. Renaud Corbet had been able to successfully imitate the actions and speech patterns of other trainees when disguised as them. Renaud Corbet had been a master backstabber. But the Spy alone was better.

His shooting and stabbing skills, which had previously fallen a bit behind his competitor's, were better that day than they had ever been before, unclouded by background thoughts or unwanted emotion. He poured all his concentration into aiming and pulling the trigger, letting none of his brainpower go to anything else. A single wild notion meandered through his head—he understood now where the Sniper's smile had gone to while he was at work. He flinched for the first time that day since putting on his mask. No, no, he didn't need to think about that man. A Sniper-shaped target appeared and without so much as blinking he fired right between the eyes.

"Boom," he drawled as the shattered targets all receded and the latest shooting contest ended, "Headshot." Even through his gloves, the Spy could feel the warmth of the gun. He returned it reluctantly to its holster, giving it a last affectionate stroke with one thumb, and stalked off in the direction of the mess, not even bothering to stay to hear who had done better today. He was well aware that he had won.

By the end of the next day, he no longer had to reprimand himself for any stray sentimental thoughts; no concentration was necessary for him to be simply the Spy. He wasn't the only one, he remarked, being changed by this place—of course, he never watched Gavin on purpose, but being observant of everyone was part of his job. The grinning Australian had stopped showing up in the mess hall and was rarely seen at all, even near his assigned sleeping quarters. He no longer smiled at or talked to any of the other trainees, though he was known to softly smirk to himself as he walked through the halls. The Spy kept out of his way. He didn't want to know what Gavin's reaction to seeing him would be—or rather, he was sure he didn't care what the Sniper thought.

The only thing he cared about was being the best Spy he could be. He was going to win, regardless of the rest of his team. He was going to play their little game and make it out alive and affluent. Each minute he spent at the range with his knife in his hand or the trigger beneath his finger increased his confidence that he was the most cunning, capable, and merciless mercenary around. By the end of his ninth day of employment, his third day as the Spy alone, he longed to try his hand at something real, to release a stream of blood with the touch of his blade and feel a life extinguished with a twitch of his hand. He was done with these children's games, and ready to be certain he could truly accomplish the task at hand. Impatient, bloodlusty thoughts ran through his brain at lightning speed as he waited in the cafeteria for fresh slop to be served—if he wanted to keep his mind clear of unwanted sentiments, he had to keep it full of other things. An aproned man entered the room with a pot full of something foul-smelling, and it suddenly occurred to the Spy that he could kill, as the English colloquialism went, two birds with one stone.

He sprang to his feet, cloaked, and slipped quickly out of the cafeteria, out of the building, and onto the road he had taken once before in search of a phone. Soft shoes slapped soundlessly against asphalt as he sped towards the sand across from the stream. Past the phone, past derelict buildings, past—what was a camper van doing out here? He didn't feel like stopping to investigate. Finally he came, panting, to the place where the road ended, where it simply faded into desert. He uncloaked and scoured the surrounding dunes with his eyes, trying to keep his breath as quiet as possible. Surely this desert wasn't totally deserted, he told himself as he clambered up a sandy slope and sat himself down next to a lone cactus. He waited for his device to charge, then cloaked again, sitting perfectly still and breathing only through his nose.

He didn't have to wait long before he heard movement over to his left, and soon a big, healthy jackrabbit hopped into view, all wiry muscles and long legs. The Spy's knife was open in his hand almost before he realized it, and a second later he was on top of the creature, aiming for that perfect, instant-death point on the spine.

Unsurprisingly, however, years of spying had failed to properly teach him leproid biology, and his first swift stab left the creature still struggling in his grasp, making strange, woeful noises and spattering blood everywhere. The Spy automatically recoiled, and the rabbit dropped pitifully on the sand for a minute, trying to struggle to its feet. Composing himself, he stabbed again, and again, and again, but the little animal kept writhing and squirming until the sixth slash went through its jugular, at which point it gave one last, tremendous spasm before suddenly falling limp in the sticky red dust. Shakily, the Spy closed his knife and put it in his pocket, forgetting to wipe it down.

"Bugger," breathed an unexpected voice behind him. The Spy whirled around to see Gavin standing behind him, ten paces off, with a stunned, slightly disgusted sort of look on his face. "What the bloody hell was that?"

"What I do in my spare time is none of your concern, convict," snarled the Spy as he tried to figure out what the Sniper was doing there and how he had managed to come so close without being heard.

"It is when you're having a go at my food supply," the Sniper growled in return. "What ya planning on doing with that rabbit, anyway? Bit squished to be good for much at all by this point."

"If you must know, you pestering bushman, I fully intend to cook and eat it." The truth was that his desire to eat anything made from the bloody pulp at his feet was waning by the second, but Spies had no need to truck in the truth, especially not when dealing with filthy outdoorsmen with annoyingly superior hunting experience.

Especially when said outdoorsmen laughed at him the way the Sniper was laughing now.

"Oh, come off it," he chuckled, "You're gonna eat that? Like hell you are. You'd have to be some kind of miracle worker to get anything remotely edible out of that mess. That was probably the worst rabbit kill I've ever seen. I'm almost impressed."

The Spy really hated that grin. "You would do well to watch your tongue, you filthy, hapless ruffian," he hissed, suddenly rushing forward to press his knife to Gavin's throat, "before I decide to kill you next."

The Sniper stared him down. The Spy could see those brown eyes again, but refused to let himself think about them. "You wouldn't dare," breathed Gavin.

"Wouldn't I?" They Spy let his own little smile curl up on his face. Having the Sniper at his mercy gave him a strange sense of justice. "Tell me, among that immense packet of rules that you received, do you remember a single one telling you not to kill another trainee?"

The Sniper's eyes widened, and the Spy could practically see him running through his memories of the contract, wildly hoping to recall some no-murder policy. It was useless. After a moment the Sniper simply ducked away from the Spy's knife and took a few paces back, shaking his head. He looked on wordlessly as the Spy turned his back to the other man, returned his knife to his pocket, dusted the sand off of his pants and shoes, and reached one hand towards his cloaking device.

"Reno," Gavin finally croaked, "What happened to you?" The Spy remained still and silent. "C'mon, Reno. Just tell me. Even if we weren't mates, Reno, I knew a thing or two about you. And this is…Reno? Hey, are you even listening? Reno?" Finally, the Sniper got the other man to turn his head.

"Who's that?" The Spy asked and disappeared.


	6. Chapter 6

On the tenth day, the Spy began to dream again.

It had been countless years since he had had so much as a nightmare that he could remember, but he awoke suddenly on the eleventh morning to find his head full of snatches of ideas—there had been something about measuring blood, and he had been unreasonably upset because Gavin had been one of his brothers, and there had been some sort of shenanigans involving a cigarette the size of a horse, and he was certain he had spent at least half the experience entirely mentally naked. He did a double-take when he looked in the mirror to discover that he was still wearing the mask. The mask had been absent in his dreams—although for some reason, everyone had still been unable to see his face. He shook his head furiously, convinced that this was just some strange, one-time occurrence, a small glitch in the killing machine that was the Spy. There would be no dreams the next night, he assured himself, and he went on with his day in the normal way: shooting and stabbing and insulting and smoking and smirking, and feeling nothing at all.

He was wrong.

The next night, the dreams were even more graphic and terrifying than they had been before, and he jolted awake an hour early covered in a cold sweat. He told himself firmly that this was a good thing, an extra hour of work, and continued as he had the day before. He awoke the thirteenth morning at the normal hour, feeling triumphant. However, when he slithered out from under his blankets, he noticed something amiss. Why did it seem that his pajamas no longer fit him around the—oh, _zut_. Memories of that night's dreams suddenly flooded him: bare skin rubbing against bare skin, squirming at the touch of rough fingers in smooth places, hot breath on his face traveling lower and lower, warm and wet sliding against each other, and staring into, oh God, brown eyes.

This could be a problem.

But perhaps, he thought as he got ready that morning, perhaps this could be all right. After all, he had successfully gotten rid of all those unwanted sentiments of confusion, fear, and longing during his waking hours; what did it hurt him to feel them in his sleep, where his employers couldn't see them and they could easily be forgotten? Not only that, but his bloodlust had seemed to wane over the past few days, which actually made his job easier—violence became exact, like a science, and he certainly no longer had the urge to murder wild rabbits. Yes, he thought as he walked to his morning meeting, this could do just fine. Dispense with all the human feelings at night, when there were no consequences, and return to the role of cold-blooded killer during the day. It could work. It would work fine as long as he stopped thinking about it.

It worked fine all throughout the meeting, as the Administrator talked about the next nine days, the last nine days of the training period, saying that they would focus on how best to fight against a different class each day. It was easy to concentrate on the diagram of a Scout that she brought up on the screen, and simple to file away in his mind all the ways that the boy could be killed. He smiled contentedly as she led them once again to the shooting range, his fingers already running over the handle of his knife in anticipation. He almost didn't notice the other trainees that they walked by.

Almost.

But his glance drifted automatically to the sound of gunfire, and he caught a glimpse of the two Snipers, firing away at ever-quickening targets. He stopped dead for a moment as more flashes from his dream came to mind—rubbing, squirming, panting, sliding, and deep, dark eyes. After a moment, he furiously tore himself away, lengthening his pace to keep up with the Administrator and other Spy and to get himself as far as possible from the Snipers. There it was again; he was filled now with hot, boiling, writhing _feeling_, and as he violently pushed emotion away, he was left with only one thought: he wanted to kill something. His fingers had never gripped his knife more tightly, and while a backstab usually put a simple slice in a wooden target and a gunshot was known to simply leave a bullet hole, he had turned most of the Scout-shaped cutouts into pathetic piles of splinters by the end of the day. And it wasn't enough.

He could tell that the other Spy was itching to say something, make some snide remark about the unnecessary and inelegant damage he was doing to the targets, so as soon as the last round was over he stalked off as quickly as he could without breaking into a full run. He wasn't even thinking about the dream anymore; his body was still twitching with the urge to find something breathing and turn it into something dead. Striding instinctively towards the road that led to the desert, he resolved to repeat the other day's performance with the rabbit. This time, he thought, he could dispatch it with one stab, and even if he failed, the idea of needing to attack the bloody, squirming creature multiple times was almost appealing to some dark, bloodlusty part of him.

As he crossed the bridge, he noticed fresh tire tracks, and almost stopped—who had been through here? He hadn't seen any unfamiliar faces at the fort, nor had he noticed any glaring absences. Still, his curiosity was nowhere near strong enough to quell the violent urge that kept his knife clasped tightly in his hand. He hurried on, although he was more wary now, eyes and ears alert for any sign of another human being. Caution paid off as he reached the other side of the bridge and noticed voices coming from not too far off. The Spy halted for a moment, peeved, before cloaking and continuing on towards the open desert.

The voice, however, grew louder as he walked, and after a few moments he realized that it belonged to Gavin. How long had the Sniper been done with his required daily training? And when and why had he come to the desert? At first he tried to push these questions out of his head, but soon the shouting turned into discernable words, and the momentarily distracted Spy slowed, trying to move more quietly as he realized that he was walking straight toward the payphone where all the noise was coming from.

"Aw, mum, you told him? But I—Well, yeah, course he is. Look, it's the same job I've had for years, except now it pays better. Yeah, I know you know, but he—What? Aw, no, mum…no, I don't want—Ah, piss!" The Spy crept closer, stopping a few feet short of the hassled-looking Sniper, who was holding the phone in one hand and scratching the back of his head with the other. As he watched, Gavin's expression hardened. "Hey dad. Look, I—Oh come off it! It's the kind of language _you_ taught me, so piss off. I'm a bloody adult; I can say whatever the hell I—Oh, no, dad, stop. I'm sorry, I didn't—" The Sniper's face, so angry moments earlier, suddenly twisted itself into an expression of worry and…was that fear? The Spy frowned. This was highly irregular. He was used to seeing Gavin blank-faced or grinning like an idiot; he hadn't known the Sniper could make so many other faces.

"No, look, mum never said…It's my fault, dad, it's the people I meet on this blo—this stupid job, sorry. I said I'm sorry! God—er, I mean, piss—no, I mean, look, dad, there's no need to…I know! Yeah, I know you hate it, but it's not like you really le—I mean, I never learned to do nothing else. No, no no no, dad, it's all on me, look, just put down the damn—I said I'm sorry! Please put it down! No, I know you have it! That or you're planning to just…Look, can you put mum on? Please? I just—Hey! I heard that! Stop! Goddammit, stop that and leave her alone, you bastard-ass wanker! Mum! Mum, can you hear me? Don't let him—mum? Mum? Mum?" Gavin stayed frozen for a moment, one hand resting heavily against the top of the payphone as he waited hopelessly for a response. The Spy had drawn closer during the Sniper's heated dialogue, and he was now near enough to hear the dial tone droning from the receiver. With a sudden ferocity, Gavin slammed it back into the cradle, spitting out a stream of violent-sounding curses that the Spy only knew half of. The Sniper began to furiously kick the base of the pay phone, spitting out more profanities and grabbing his foot after a few sharp blows.

The Spy stood transfixed at this wild show of emotion. As he watched the Sniper's outburst, his bloodlust was momentarily forgotten—as was the amount of charge on his cloaking device. Suddenly, he was visible again, and before he could sneak out of sight, the raging Australian whirled around and fixed him with a menacing glare. "You," Gavin forced out, his voice dripping with disgust, "What in the bleeding hell are you doing here?"

The Spy didn't have a response. Gavin had always been, at the very least, civil to him, but now he was looking even more murderous than the Spy himself had been mere minutes ago. Not only that, but his voice sounded shaky—and were those sniffles he heard after every panting breath? Wordlessly, and unsure of exactly why, the Spy reached into his jacked pocket for his handkerchief and lightly tossed it the Sniper's way.

Catching it instinctively, Gavin stared at the delicate little piece of cloth for a moment before throwing it down defiantly. "I don't need your pity," he spat. The Spy dove for the handkerchief, managing to grab it only after it had reached the ground. He glared up at the Sniper with narrowed eyes as he tried to shake the dust out.

"This," he hissed, "is my favourite handkerchief."

"Oh no, you poor thing," the Sniper drawled sarcastically. "You came out here to off me, didn't you? Figured you'd follow up on that threat you gave me a couple days back, but then you saw me talking to my parents and felt sorry for me? Piss off. I don't want your bloody sympathy, and I could still kill you with one hand tied behind my back. So come on! Just try it!" Spit was flying from Gavin's mouth, and the Spy stood up warily, tucking his handkerchief back into his pocket as he straightened.

He was immediately and violently returned to the ground by a furious and forceful punch to the jaw. The violence rushed back into his brain, and his every instinct told him to retaliate, but he held himself back. He didn't want to kill the Sniper now, not so full of raw emotion; it would be unprofessional. He just wanted to get away from here, to kill some small animal and be on his way, to confront the wild bushman only in his dreams, and to enjoy his quiet life of murder in peace. The best solution, he decided, would be the simplest: to escape. He scuttled backwards, rubbing dirt out of his eyes while bracing himself for the next blow, but it never came.

He blinked his eyes open to see Gavin backing up against the pay phone with a fearful expression. What was he afraid of? The Spy had done nothing. As he watched, the Sniper sank to the ground and put his hands to his face, leaning against the base of the phone. "Piss," he mumbled through gritted teeth, "I'm just like him…"

The Spy had no idea what to do in a situation like this. Perhaps he could just keep backing away, go to the desert and kill a rabbit like he'd planned. Perhaps he could just leave the shaking man there; perhaps it was that simple. But then again, the Sniper was in an unpredictable state, and if he stayed like this, there was no telling what he would do. Determined, the Spy pulled himself up, brushed the dust off of his pants, and strode over to other man. Squatting carefully so that no part of him other than his feet touched the ground, he reached once again for the handkerchief and offered it to the Sniper.

Gavin stared blankly at him, but despite the proximity of the deep brown eyes, the Spy's dream was now entirely forgotten. He was too concerned with dealing with the real, present Sniper to worry about the man's manifestation in his subconscious. Finally, the handkerchief was accepted with a sigh.

"Can't believe you saw all that," the Sniper muttered. "Can't believe I hit you…" He pressed the cloth under his dark aviators and held it there for a minute, then blew his nose loudly. "God, I'm a mess…Don't want this back at all, do you?" He held up the sopping mess of silk, snot and tears.

"I expect it laundered and returned to me by this time tomorrow, bushman," the Spy corrected. "I told you, that is my favourite handkerchief."

"Can't you just buy a new one or something? I could pay for it, if that's—"

"Non, this handkerchief cannot be replaced," he insisted.

"Why not?"

Later, the Spy would berate himself for his response, wondering why he felt the urge to tell the truth. It would have been so easy to lie, to make up some excuse, but instead he said: "It was my mother's."

He was close enough to see the bushman blink in surprise. "That's right, you got parents, too…" The Sniper frowned, thinking for a moment. "Hey Reno, what's your dad like?"

The Spy, who had not been expecting the question, let another startled truth slip out. "I-I do not know."

"Aw, come on," the Sniper pleaded, "you gotta know what your dad's like."

"I do not know," the Spy repeated with a growl, "and it is none of your business." He had only wanted to calm the Sniper to get him out of the way; he had not been expecting all of these personal questions about the person he no longer was. He didn't want to think about the parents or the past he was trying to forget, he just wanted to get away and kill something.

"None of my-!" The Sniper looked angry for a moment, then sighed. "Nah, guess it's not. I just…thought maybe it wasn't just me who had a complete piker of a pop. Thought maybe that'd make it better." The Spy said nothing, but raised one eyebrow, which Gavin seemed to take as an invitation to continue. "He…he hits her, you know. He hits my mum. Always has. Long as I've been around, anyway. He says they were fine before that. Before me." The Sniper didn't need the handkerchief anymore, it seemed. There was none of that heartbroken trembling from before in his voice, just bitterness.

"Does he…" The Spy couldn't help himself; he was curious by nature, and while he had no desire to speak of his own family, there was nothing wrong with talking about Gavin's, especially when it might help the man calm down. "Has he ever hit you?" The Sniper gave his head a violent shake, and the Spy tried, awkwardly, to continue soothing him. "Alors, he cares about you, at least a little—"

Gavin let out a cold, barking laugh. "Nah. He cares about my mum, and he roughs her up plenty. He never touched me 'cause he couldn't be bothered to give a rat's ass about his stupid kid. That why you don't know your dad?" The Sniper asked suddenly, turning to face the Spy. "'Cause he didn't care and left? Crikey, I wish mine would leave…"

"Do not speak of things that you do not understand," snapped the Spy. There was anger in his voice; he was getting emotional; no, this wasn't supposed to happen! He took a deep, calming breath, letting the shaking in his voice travel down to his core, shivering inside for a few moments while his face remained expressionless. Meanwhile, the Sniper kept talking.

"Look, even if you didn't know him, you gotta know something about him, right? I mean, your mum woulda said something…"

The Spy shook his head, feeling a bit more clear-minded. Despite the continuation of the personal questions, he felt slightly less murderous. Was it because he had let himself shake, let out some of the anger? He wasn't sure. But perhaps, it dawned on him, he could test it. Maybe if he talked about his family with one person, he would get them out of his system and he would not need to think about them anymore. He could give the Sniper what was left of Renaud Corbet and never again have to deal with either of them. It was worth a shot. At the very least, it would placate the still wild-eyed Sniper. "My mother…" he began, slowly, "was many things to many men."

"Oh, I gotcha." Gavin grinned for the first time that day. "One of them free, independent women, eh? What'd they call 'em…flappers? The kind of sheila who could have any man whenever she wanted?" The look in the Sniper's eyes was almost wistful, to the point where the Spy couldn't even bring himself to be angry. He just shook his head.

"Not quite. It was more like…any man could have her whenever he wanted." His eyes flicked to Gavin's face, waiting for him to figure it out. When, after a minute, the Sniper still seemed confused, he added: "It was, how did you say it? Equivalent exchange. Just simple trading."

Realization dawned in the Sniper's eyes. "You mean she was a—" A murderous glare from the Spy stopped him before he could say what. "So…so that's why," Gavin cleared his throat, clearly embarrassed. "That's why you don't know 'bout your dad. Makes sense. Oh, bloody hell," the Sniper's eyes widened as he remembered the cigar-scented conversation they had had a week before, "equivalent exchange! No wonder you were so pissed. I'm sorry, mate, I had no idea…"

It had not actually occurred to the Spy that this could be part of the reason for his anger, that the way Gavin had smiled with him one minute and claimed they had no relationship the next had reminded him of the countless men he used to see walk in and out his mother's front door. He hadn't consciously thought about it, but now that he did, it made a sort of sense. The Sniper was smarter than he looked. But he did not want to talk about his relationship with Gavin, because, he told himself, he no longer wanted to have one. "It is of little consequence," he said simply.

"Don't be stupid," the Sniper insisted, "damn straight it's of consequence. I mean, having a kid ain't exactly a smart move in that line of work—I mean, that's what I've heard. And you…were you, I mean, did your mum mean to…were…"

The Spy knew what he was trying to ask. "Was I a mistake?" He guessed, boring his gaze into the Sniper's.

"Uhh…" Gavin had trouble dealing with the intensity of his gaze; his brown eyes shifted down. Then, unexpectedly, they came back up to meet the Spy's before Gavin confirmed, "Yeah."

"I do not know." The truth again. "And it does not matter." Mostly the truth.

"Doesn't it?" Gavin asked, more incredulous and curious than prying. The fact that he asked at all, though, seemed to hit a nerve.

"Of course it does not! My mother loved me," the Spy insisted, suddenly mentally running through all the adoring things she had said to him, words he had needed to repeat to himself when she was gone. 'Sweet, clever, precious, perfect boy! Oh, so charming, so handsome! You'll have your pick of the girls, you will! Is there anything you aren't good at? You can do whatever you set your mind to,' and, for some reason, the most difficult to believe, whether it came from his mother or himself: 'I love you, Renaud.' His inner shakes grew more intense; a few of them began physically manifesting, he noticed; his knee was trembling and there was a crack in his voice. And even as most of him wished that this awkwardly intimate exchange would end, some tiny, growing part of him wanted to share everything with Gavin.

"She sounds like a hell of a woman," Gavin decided with gruff honesty.

"She was," the Spy agreed softly, "and your mother must be very kind indeed, to send you such generous care packages and also put up with your father." The Spy was more than ready to turn the conversation back to the much more comfortable topic of Sniper's familial dysfunction.

Gavin stared dully ahead. "She's too nice. She won't leave him. She won't leave even with everything he does. Keeps saying he needs her."

"How bad is it? What he does?" He could see the Sniper frown pensively at the ground, and suddenly realized he was experiencing the same inner spasms that the Spy had just fallen prey to.

"It's…" Gavin shook his head. "She only got sent to the hospital once this year. Last year it was three times. Two the year before that…once, when I was bitty, she had to go every other month. I can't…what if he goes too far, y'know? I mean, all of it's too far, but what if…" Suddenly, the Sniper's gaze snapped around and his eyes met the Spy's. "How'd your mum die?"

The Spy's eyebrows flew as high as they would go. "Excuse me?"

"You keep talking 'bout her like she ain't around anymore. What happened?"

He waited for himself to get furious, to refuse to talk anymore about his mother. After all, her death was too close for comfort—too close to the man he no longer wanted to be, to the past he was trying to shake, to the emotions he no longer needed. He waited for violent rage to surge up within him, ready for the urge to destroy something small, wriggling, and helpless.

But instead, he found himself calm. His knee and voice had stopped shaking, and instead of murderous rage, all he could summon up was a simple sigh and another truthful response. "Illness. She was sick, and then she was dead." He waved a nonchalant hand as he spoke. He was cool again. He was collected. His plan had worked. The Sniper's next question even managed to illicit from the Spy a callous laugh.

"Right, okay. But which one? What was she sick with?"

And there it was, a harsh bark of amusement. Cold and beautiful. "According to the expert opinion of which of the highly-trained medical professionals attending to our tiny little whore-shack in Grenoble?"

"Oh." Gavin frowned at the cracked dirt below him, clearly troubled. This little sharing session had clearly not been quite as helpful for him as it had for the Spy, but at least now he was more subdued and less wildly unpredictable. The Sniper looked at him again, brow still furrowed. "Wait, so what did you do, then? No dad, mum dead…where'd you go?" Okay, scratch that. Still unpredictable.

He had gotten what he wanted out of the conversation; both he and the Sniper were less violent, and he no longer needed to soil his suit or his knife with the blood of some lowly desert creature—in fact, he shuddered at the thought of it. He had given Gavin enough to become only the Spy again, and if he gave anymore, he would shift back towards Renaud Corbet, something he certainly did not want to do. "Strange questions," he sneered, "to ask of a mere acquaintance and colleague, Monsieur Sniper. Story time is over. I expect my handkerchief laundered and returned by this time tomorrow. Adieu."

And with that, he straightened, brushing the last of the dust off of his suit, and strode off into the desert, pulling out a cigarette. He was reaching for his lighter when he heard a voice call from behind, "Oy, Reno!" He froze. He was not in the mood for further conversation, he did not want the bushman to continue using that name, and yet he could not help himself. He turned around.

"Listen, Reno," the Sniper said with a grim smile as he pulled himself up, "you tell anyone about this and I'm gonna make you bleed in ways you never even dreamed of, got it?"

The Spy smirked in return. Much better. "Likewise, Gavin." And with that, the two went on their very separate ways.

When the Spy turned in that night, he fell instantly into a sound, dreamless sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

_Author's Note: I've written a special short Christmas story set in Renaud's childhood that I'm not posting here because on its own, it has almost no relevance to TF2. However, if you want to read it, it's up on my deviantArt page (my username is louderthanthemelody) and is titled "Giving"_

* * *

><p>The next day was almost miraculously calm. He did not think about his encounter with the Sniper all morning; instead his mind was full of nothing but work, of murder simple, swift, and clean. It was the perfect mindset for learning how to destroy raw, over-expressive Soldiers, which was what the Administrator had them focus on that day. There was no remarkable tumult in his mind, only streamlined, efficient deadliness. The pull of the trigger, the swish of the blade, the hiss of the cloaking device—these were the only words that ran through his head. His thoughts remained this clear for hours, even during lunch.<p>

Even when he saw Gavin.

The Sniper, for the first time in over a week, was sitting at their old table, looking defiant but just the tiniest bit nervous. He had out a bag of jerky too large for one person's meal, and had his aviators locked on the entrance to the mess. When they swung open, Gavin started to stir, but before he could rise from his seat the Spy breezed right past him, headed for the table containing the slop of the day. The Sniper stayed frozen, half-standing, as the Frenchman collected his food and pointedly strode past again, heading past the beckoning aroma of jerky and out the greasy double doors.

His mind, somehow, remained calm and empty as he returned to his room and ate his food, concentrating on chewing his mystery meat enough to swallow and stirring his bowl of sludge until it looked like soup. He had to screw up the best of his determination just to convince himself to eat the stuff. Once his meal was over, however, he found his brain dangerously empty and without a thing to do.

Absentmindedly, he reached for a cigar and lit it. From Gavin's mother, he remembered. These cigars came from an abused woman, a woman who raised the Sniper that he knew—basically alone, if Gavin's father cared as little for him as it seemed. A woman, the Spy realized, who the Sniper would have considered the most important person at some point in his life, and very possibly still did. He puffed appreciatively at the cigar, which suddenly seemed a lot more precious. The Sniper had shared so much with him; it didn't really feel like equivalent exchange. It felt like…He shook his head gently. It didn't matter what it felt like, because those feelings were the sort that would get him fired or killed. He had already resolved to get rid of them, but what was he supposed to do? Share with the Sniper, as he had done with his childhood memories? That seemed like it would bring the unwanted sentiments out stronger, not quell them. The cigar came to his mouth again as he contemplated the best way to dispose of his not-quite-solidified desires. He couldn't say how long he sat there, slowly puffing and thinking.

He was jolted from his reverie by something like gunfire coming from his doorway. His instincts took over, causing him to quickly extinguish the half of the cigar that was left in an ashtray, shoot out of his seat, cloak, and slide next to the door with his knife in hand so that he would be ready to stab whoever came through. For a few breathless seconds, nothing happened. Then the sharp noise attacked again, and with a twinge of embarrassment the Spy realized that the sound was nothing more than someone knocking on the door. Cautiously, he uncloaked and reached for the doorknob, flinching when the jarring raps hit the door once more.

The door swung softly open and there was Gavin, standing awkwardly in the hall with his fist raised to pound again. Though he had been expecting no one else, the Spy was a little surprised that this time, the Sniper had waited him to answer his knocks before barging in. He waited for his visitor to say something, not bothering to put his knife away.

"Hey, ah…Got your hankie." The Sniper held it towards him, clean and dry.

The Spy snatched it from is fingers eyeing it critically before folding it carefully back into his pocket, where it belonged. "Many thanks," he admitted gruffly. The knife was still out, and Gavin seemed perturbed by it. Good. Maybe he would go on his way and leave the Spy to his thinking, let him figure out his plan of action before being forced to talk to the Sniper…

But Gavin pointed the half-smoked cigar in the ashtray and grinned. "Glad you kept those. I was worried…"

The Spy raised one eyebrow. "Why would I dispose of a gift of such high quality?"

"Oh, I dunno, I thought…All the stuff I said that day…the day I gave 'em to you…" The Sniper's face was screwed up oddly, as if he was trying to name something he didn't know the word for. "I guess I…I just…guess I'm…" The Spy's eyebrow kept rising higher and higher, distracting Gavin momentarily before he finally brought a hand to his temple as if he had a headache and said, "Sorry."

"Sorry?"

"Yeah. That's the one. I'm sorry." The Sniper's hand slid around in front of his face, putting yet another barrier between his eyes and the Spy. He couldn't tell if Gavin was ashamed of his actions or his apology. Probably both.

The Spy smirked. "Were you afraid you had hurt my feelings?" He knew he should want the Sniper to say no, that it was just a formality and they would return to a normal, distant relationship as coworkers. But somewhere, some not-yet-discarded part of him wished he would say yes, wanted him to care.

"Feelings?" Gavin sounded surprised, almost alarmed. "Look, professionals don't need feelings—"

"I could not agree more," the Spy was quick to agree. This was good, he told himself, this was the way it should be.

"—but that don't mean we don't have 'em, and yeah, I thought maybe I had hurt your—well, I guess I didn't need to worry about that," the Sniper muttered, not able to really look at the calm, collected Spy.

"Indeed," he murmured, not paying attention to whatever that fluttering was in his stomach. Instead, he grinned widely, and drawled in a horrible mimicry of Gavin's voice: "No worries, mate!"

There was a moment where the Sniper simply stared at him, dumbfounded, but then he started laughing. The Spy realized it had been over a week since he'd heard Gavin laugh like that. Something inside him felt warm and fuzzy—no, that was all wrong; he was supposed to be cold and hard! He gave his head a minute shake as the Sniper gave one last guffaw, and then began to close the door. Gavin's hand shot out to catch it.

"Oi, wait, I—"

"Yes?" The Spy met the Sniper's eyes steadily, and Gavin seemed to realize he didn't have anything to say, no good excuse for keeping the door open.

"Right," he coughed. "Never mind. Off I go." Reluctantly, he pulled his hand back, and the Spy closed it firmly in his face. He turned his back to the door, took a deep breath, and reached immediately for the second half of the cigar, relighting it almost hungrily.

He was feeling _those feelings_ again, those ones he wanted to get rid of above all else, those ones he wasn't allowed to have, those ones that interfered with his ability to work, those ones he thought he had destroyed a week ago, those ones about Gavin. He paced the room briskly, puffing wildly; he needed to do something to get his mind off the Sniper. He had gotten too close yesterday, far too close, but if he stayed away from him for another week or two, maybe then these feelings would go away. Or maybe they'd be assigned to the same team and the Sniper's professional sensibilities would allow them to at least share a friendship; the Spy thought he could stand that…What was Gavin doing, anyway, trying to apologize and talk about feelings when he had made it clear that they were not friends? It was unfair. Yesterday had been a fluke, nothing more. He had to do something to get all this off his mind, to go on a trip, some sort of challenge or vacation, but the challenges of this job wouldn't come for another week still, and meanwhile, there was nowhere he could go. All too soon, the cigar was gone, and though he had understood perfectly how to kill a Soldier, he strode over to the shooting range again to practice; at least that would keep his mind on what was truly important.

After what seemed like no time at all, he was out of bullets, and not long after that he realized that he was in danger of dulling his knife blade. He swore under his breath, and started back towards his room; he would have to sharpen it tonight and ask the Administrator for more bullets tomorrow. Suddenly, as he stepped outside, he tripped over nothing. He scrambled to his feet and looked around; though night had fallen and it was pitch dark, he could tell there wasn't a thing there that he could have stumbled over. Surely he didn't just fall over himself? Then he noticed it: a slight shimmer over to one corner. As he watched, the other Spy uncloaked, revealing himself to be leaning against the wall with one foot propped out just enough to trip someone.

"Oh, my apologies, I did not see you there. Wait—never mind. That's your line." The other Spy wore a smile almost as wide as his face as he pulled out his disguise kit and lit a cigarette. His gold tooth glinted in the darkness; he continued, "How are you, _petit_? You seem stressed. Certainly very trigger-happy…"

"My business is just that: mine. Not yours," the Spy growled. He couldn't turn because that would be unsafe; he couldn't back away because that would show weakness. He just kept his eyes level with his coworker's.

"Not quite true, _mon ami_. Soon enough, when we are split into different teams, knowing your business will be the entirety of my business." Both Spies seemed totally relaxed, and each knew that only the other could tell how tense and alert he was.

"The entirety?" The Spy cocked an eyebrow, slipping his hands into his pockets. "So you are giving up fighting altogether now. A wise choice, if I do say so myself."

"Watch it, _jeune bête_," the other Spy snarled softly, blowing a smoke ring. The Spy thought he heard someone moving nearby, but the his counterpart took no notice and continued, "You would do well not to discount me. I have been paying attention, you know, to your sudden increase in skill, and the way your killing has changed. You may think you are growing, but I know better. You are spiking. Your technique is varied and erratic. No matter how many kills you get, you seem to swing between bloodthirsty animal and apathetic machine. No one else may notice it, _garçon_, but noticing things is my job. I don't care how nonchalant the others think you are. I know," the other Spy was drawing closer, leering in his face while smoke curled from under his lips, "you are an emotional _mess_."

He didn't let his eyes register his shock, even though he knew the other Spy would be able to detect it anyway. Instead, he brought out a cigarette of his own, lit it, and mentioned, "Do not let yourself think that you are the only one who notices things, _vieillard. _You confront me because you are afraid. You worry that I am smarter, stronger, faster, and better than you. You tell yourself that your strategy is sound and your strikes are consistent, but really, they are flat. You have lost your edge already, old man." They both blew smoke rings, but the younger Spy's grew larger and swallowed those of his older counterpart. He watched as fury burned behind the eyes of the placid-seeming gold-toothed other Spy.

"Your insults will not rile me to the point of violence," the older man pronounced slowly. "Do not mistake me for you, you cowardly, pathetic, weak, unintelligent, sniveling, bad-mannered, easily-angered, over-feeling, bleeding-heart, wanton son of a whore!"

The resounding crack that followed right on the heels of this speech reminded the Spy of something between thunder and cracking bones, and he watched with calm interest as his insult-spitting enemy sank before him under the blow of a shadowed figure. He had been right, he thought mildly, there had been someone moving nearby, and that someone had reacted very adversely and violently to the elder sneak's little speech. The Spy flipped open his lighter and was not as surprised as he should have been.

That someone was Gavin.

"Here's an idea," the Sniper growled at the sprawled elder Spy, "why don't you shut up before I feel the need to show you the way a real man uses a real knife." His right hand was balled into a fist and smeared with a drop of the older man's blood, while his left hand held a long, sharp kukri whose cold glint would send shivers down any man's spine.

The enemy Spy began to laugh from his place on the ground, despite the blood running from the edge of his mouth and the crooked shape of his jaw. "Oh, this is too cute! Look, _petite fleur_, your little boyfriend came to your rescue! And he's a real man, too!" His cackles rang throughout the darkness and the Sniper tensed, tightening his grip on the handle of his blade.

Without missing a beat, the Spy reached across, grabbed Gavin's kukri, plunged it into his fallen counterpart's right wrist. The peals of laughter broke off with a pained, choking cry as he wiggled the blade from side to side until the right hand was completely severed. His face was calm and his eyes betrayed nothing as he pulled the knife out of the ground again amid the other Spy's strangled whimpers, handing the bloody blade back to the bewildered bushman, and he flicked a few ashes in his opponent's eyes before suggesting mildly, "Perhaps you ought to go see a Medic. I am sure they are eager to practice their craft." He returned his cigarette to his mouth and his hands to his pockets before striding off into the dark.

He didn't want to cause more of a scene than he already had. He didn't want any awkward conversations to stem from the other Spy's little one-liner joke, and he didn't want to know why Gavin had felt the need to come to his rescue. He didn't want to know why he had felt the need to sever his counterpart's hand. He wanted to sharpen his knife, eat some dinner, and get a good night's sleep. That was all.

Of course, he had rarely gotten what he wanted. Before he could cross half the ground he needed to, the Sniper's overlong legs had caught up to him, and Gavin's low voice growled in his ear, "You always do that."

The Spy snapped his head around to look at the Sniper. "Cut people's hands off? Pray tell, when else have you seen me do that?"

Gavin shook his head. "Not that," he insisted. "You leave as soon as you don't like where things are going. You always have. When I saw your face you pushed me into a wall and ran off, when I caught you stabbing that rabbit you just threatened my life and left, and when you'd had enough heart-to-heart yesterday you stopped answering my questions and walked away. And today you shut the door in my face…The only improvement I can see here is you're letting your violence out on some other bloke instead of me." He glanced grimly and the blood staining his kukri. "But you know, nothing's ever gonna get resolved if you keep running away."

The Spy fixed him with an incredulous look and let out a short, harsh little laugh. "I am the one who runs away? Was it not you, Monsieur Sniper, who fled my room at the prospect of friendship because it disagreed with your professional standards?"

"Look, I said I was sorry about that, don't make me say it again!" Gavin protested. "And besides…I didn't leave 'cause of the friends thing. Piss, I think I was all wrong on that. After what happened yesterday, and hell, all the time we ever spent together, I think it's pretty obvious we're friends. I was just being a pissheaded, stubborn-ass piker. So let's—"

"_Absolument pas_," the Spy snapped. "You've made your choice and I have made mine. You chose to make no friends, and I chose to change who I am, both of us so that we could accommodate this job. I'm not about to change my mind just because you have. There are certain things that ought to stay constant so that a man can get his work done."

"Look, I heard what that other Spy said, about you being all emotional, and to be honest, I couldn't see it, and I still don't really—well, except for the bit where you stabbed him out of the blue there—but I'm willing to bet you do want to be mates and you're just being a wanker about it. Come on, Reno—"

"What have I told you about using that name?" The Spy hissed. "Besides, that is not who I am anymore. As I just said, I have changed myself. The 'Reno' you spoke to once is dead and gone."

"Oh really?" Gavin said quietly. "Who was I talking to yesterday, then?"

The Spy looked as if he was about to retort, stopped himself, and frowned. "It does not matter. There is no room in this place for the man that I was."

The Sniper matched his frown, clearly working something out behind his huge, blank aviators. A smile started creeping onto his face. "Sure there is," he whispered. "Come on!" He grabbed the Spy's wrist and strode out into the dark desert, certainly not heading towards any place on the map that the Administrator had sent.

"Where are you taking me, convict?" The Spy hissed, trying to pull his arm away but walking with the Sniper anyway.

"You'll see," Gavin promised, his grin shining in the dark.

"Are you sure you want to be friends? Because at the moment it seems that you are trying to seduce me or kill me," the Spy shook his head, "possibly both."

Soon he could see a hulking white form in front of them. It looked like…a camper van? The Sniper let go of the Spy's wrist and stood in front of it, facing his companion. "Ta-da!" he shouted, spreading his arms wide and sending a few night birds flying for cover at the sound of his voice echoing against the sand.

The Spy eyed the giant pale vehicle suspiciously. "And what exactly is this, bushman?"

"This," Gavin explained proudly, "is what I like to call 'home sweet home.'"

The Sniper lived in a van. It took a moment for this knowledge to seep in. Once it had, the Spy couldn't help himself. First he snorted, then he sniggered, then he doubled over and started shrieking with laughter. "A van!" He shouted gleefully. "You live in a van! Oh, _mon dieu_, you have got to be kidding me…"

Gavin put his hands on his hips, pouting. "Now, hold on, what's so funny about that?"

"Wh—wh—what's so f-f-funny?" The Spy snickered, having trouble breathing. "YOU LIVE IN A VAN! That's what's so funny! 'Oh, I think I could go for a nice, refreshing cup of tea! But what's this? I'm out of sugar? Not to worry! I'll just pop into the living room and drive down to the corner store! Might as well get some new toilet paper while I'm at it, for the bathroom that I also have in this van! Maybe I'll just drive and piss at the same time!'"

"Actually, I usually—"

"'What's that? You want to come over to my house? Better idea: my house will come over to you!'" The Spy wiped a single tear out of the corner of his eye; this was the funniest thing that had happened to him in over a week. The Sniper, however, was clearly peeved.

"Well, fine," he snapped, folding his arms. "If you're too good for my van, then why don't you walk your pansy ass back to that dinky little room of yours. Assuming you know the way back."

The Spy began to sober as he realized that he had no idea where this van was situated in relation to the rest of the base, and while he let out a few more chuckles, he started to catch his breath and regain his calm, though his huge, ridiculous smile didn't leave his face. "Ah, my apologies…I just…I have never met someone who lived in a van before…" He shook his head, holding back another laugh. "It is very nice, Monsieur Sniper. Thank you for showing me. May I go home now, or did you truly bring me here to seduce and kill me?"

Gavin winced. "Neither, mate, geez…I brought you here because you said there was nowhere you could be yourself. I thought maybe…maybe you could, here." The Sniper scratched the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable, and the Spy frowned.

"And what makes you think," he asked slowly, "that this old van is the right place for that?" Alarm bells were going off in his head; this was dangerous; this would get him fired; this was a terrible idea. A terribly tempting idea.

"No surveillance. Far enough from the base as you want it to be. Nobody around but me, and we talked before you were…before you changed. That way you could find room for yourself, we could be mates, and we wouldn't have to worry much about anyone finding out." The Spy had to admit, it sounded nice.

Too nice.

"Why do you care? Why do you suddenly want so badly for us to be friends?"

"I guess…" Gavin scratched his head, making his hat move. "I dunno, after we talked yesterday…I've never really told anyone before, 'bout my parents, and it felt real nice, and I realized…I probably need a friend. And when you told me 'bout your life, and your mum, I figured you needed one too. And I think…" The Sniper looked down, kicking at a rock by his feet and rushing through his next words. "Well, like I said, we were already mates and I was too stupid to see it, and you're easy to talk to, and I realized I missed you."

The Sniper missed him. Great. This was exactly what he didn't need. Unless…He had been wondering how he could let out his feelings for Gavin, how he could share them as he had his past without creating more drama, more tension, and more feelings. Perhaps this was it. If he acted as the observed rather than the observer, they could hammer out the issue without the Spy seeming any more human than he wanted to be. "Tell me, Gavin," he began, delicately, "you say that you were not frightened by the concept of friendship when you ran from my room a week ago. What was it, then, that sent you scurrying?"

The Sniper flushed. "Oh, it was, you know…that other thing." The Spy raised one eyebrow. "The thing, with the…when you looked at me." The eyebrow hiked up again. "You know…after I asked what you wanted, and you…er…"

"Spit it out," the Spy grumbled softly.

"You looked like you wanted to…well…Oh, piss, you know."

"I looked like I wanted to piss?"

"No, bloody hell! You know what I'm trying to say!"

"Maybe I do know, maybe I don't. I won't be sure unless you tell me." He kept his eyes locked on the Sniper's aviators, unblinking and unwavering.

"You looked like you wanted to…to…" Gavin furrowed his brow and twisted his face into a scowl, clearly struggling to say it, and the Spy lost patience with every moment. Finally, the Sniper's lips opened again, and the words came out:

"You looked like you wanted to go steady."

The Spy couldn't help it.

He laughed again.

Gavin looked crestfallen. "Guess…guess I got that wrong, then?"

Letting his cackles stop, the Spy lifted his narrowed eyes to the Sniper's again, avoiding the question. "You sound disappointed," he noted with a smirk. "I did think it was a bit odd for you to drag me all the way out to your van just to be friends…"

"What? No, I, I didn't…I don't…" Gavin shook his head emphatically, turning a new shade of red. "I don't do that."

"With men?" The Spy asked for clarification.

"Uh…" The Sniper hesitated a moment too long. "Right. Don't do that with men."

"Yet you did seem disappointed," the Spy pressed, his curiosity piqued by Gavin's behavior.

"If I did, it's probably just 'cause…Well, don't get thought of like that a lot." The Sniper kicked at the rocks at his feet again, and suddenly the Spy understood.

Gavin's views of romance would have come from his parents, his abusive, dysfunctional family. He remembered what the Sniper had said after punching him the day before—"Piss, I'm just like him…"—and realized that Gavin must have stayed away from relationships, running from the world in a battered camper van, because he didn't want to end up hurting someone he cared about the way his father did. TF Industries' rules against romance and friendship would have seemed the perfect place for him to hide, but he hadn't counted on working in close quarters with other men, and he hadn't counted on the possibility that he might need someone. The Spy could relate. He had forgotten that he might need someone, too. He looked at the awkward Sniper leaning against the beaten-up vehicle, his smirk softened into a genuine smile, and against all his better judgment, he said: "Alright, Gavin. Let's give your little theory a try. Let me in, and perhaps we can salvage something of myself."

He had tried to be objective, inhuman, cool, and shrewd, but the Sniper was acting curiously, and his offer was tempting. Was there really a place in this lifestyle for Renaud Corbet? Could he be himself in that ridiculous van with that ridiculous man? Would it make being the Spy on the job easier, or harder? And why had Gavin seemed so let down?

There was only one way to find out.

So the Spy stepped into the van and slipped into the back of his own mind, willing Renaud Corbet to come to the front and take the reins once again.


	8. Chapter 8

"So, what do you think?"

It was a big question, and it should have had a huge answer. Yes, what did he think? About the van in the desert, about the Sniper's—his _friend_'s proposition, about the newly-dubbed friendship itself, about the rules he was breaking, about the promises to himself that he was similarly shattering, about the enemy they had left bleeding in the night, about the Spy that he had become, about…

Renaud Corbet wasn't sure what he thought about anything. His mind was strangely blank; he had tried to push his recently created persona to the back of his head and found not much else left. He didn't even have the presence to panic about how much of himself seemed to be missing, and besides, panicking had gotten him nowhere in the past. He just needed a moment, he told himself, to readjust.

The wary Frenchman shifted his focus to the vehicle he had just entered. It was smaller than it looked from the outside, although that may have been because it was absolutely crammed with belongings. The Sniper had a bit of everything—there were the necessities, of course; he had pots and pans and blankets and clothes and even something that passed as a bed, although one couldn't describe the space as "organized." And he had things in there, too, that weren't necessary: odd little knicknacks, something that looked like a music box, a harmonica, some crumpled packs of gum, small trophies from wild animals that must have been huge and fierce, even a few choice pieces of literature, and, in every possible nook and cranny of the van, yellowed envelopes sporting vibrant stamps. He picked one up—curiosity was, after all, part of his job and integral to his personality, and had been since long before he donned a mask. The address that the letter was sent to was unique; glancing around, it seemed that each one had arrived at a different location. However, they were all addressed to one "Gavin G. Mundy," and the return address was always the same, a "Persimmon Mundy."

"Oy, give it!" A rough hand appeared from behind and tugged the correspondence from his grasp. Renaud smirked in amusement as the bushman placed it, with utmost care and delicacy, in the shadow of a particularly precarious stack of place.

"Ah, my apologies. I did not mean to interfere with your meticulous organization system."

The Sniper glared at him, but when he replied, there was a hint of amusement in his voice. "Alright, so I haven't cleaned the place in a couple…years. So what?"

"If I am to make myself comfortable here, I will at the very least require somewhere to sit," he replied, eyeing the bed suspiciously. He could see a few more letters tucked into the pillowcase, and the whole thing was covered in dirty laundry. He would have commented on the smell, but the truth was that he didn't mind as much as he probably should have.

"Oh yeah," muttered the Australian, putting his hands on his hips and staring down the tangle of clothes as if expecting them to yield. "Right, got it—" And with a single swipe of a lanky arm, the whole mess came tumbling to the ground, somehow not knocking over the surprisingly expensive-looking clock that it landed on. Only the pillow remained on the bed. "There you go. Plenty of room."

There was a bit of awkward shuffling before the Spy could sit down; there wasn't enough floor space for the two men to properly step around each other, and for a moment the confines of the van squeezed them together, chests touching. A stagger, a hop, and a few awkward coughs later, one man was sitting stiffly on the bed and the other was leaning against the wall.

"Not used to having many callers, I see," the Frenchman remarked, attempting to squirm into a more comfortable position.

"Sorry," the other man muttered, looking at the floor. Renaud pursed his lips in exasperation—though he wasn't sure which of them it was directed towards. He certainly hadn't meant to shame the fellow's hospitality.

"No need to be sorry," he reassured, "I have certainly been held in much less comfortable situations by assassins other than yourself." He poked at the edges of paper that poked out from under the pillowcase. "Letters from your mother?"

The bushman's gaze shot up. His body was suddenly taught, as if at any moment he might pounce forward and bat the Spy's hand away from his personal correspondences. Instead, he gave a cautious growl. "Yeah. Letters from mum. Don't touch 'em." Renaud was itching to ask more, but before he could, Gavin jerked his head towards something surrounded by a pile of mugs asked, "You want coffee?"

The frenchman's mouth quirked. Quick to change the subject, wasn't he? Ah well, it was a touchy topic, after all—and besides, this was the Spy's first time in his comrade's van. His _friend_'s van. Every time he thought the word, he had to fight a little twitch that shouted to him just how many rules he was breaking. He sternly reminded himself that he didn't care. He was beginning to remember that he wanted to break more of them. He accepted the offer of coffee.

Renaud watched in fascination as the Sniper prepared—it turned out that the thing hiding behind a stack of mugs was indeed a coffeemaker, and somehow Gavin was able to set it up without losing or breaking anything. As the pot started brewing, his host turned around and gave him a grin, the kind that he hadn't seen for too long.

"Alright Reno, here we are. Not gonna ask too many questions, especially since you're just getting settled and you're a secretive little wanker, but I'd still love to know what's going on in that whacked-out head of yours. Feel like sharing with the class?"

"Hmm, I'm not sure…" He allowed a playful smirk of his own; just a moment ago he had been thinking that the bushman certainly did not look bad from behind. Yes, he was starting to feel like himself again. "The rest of the class might not appreciate my perspective."

"Aw, come off it," Gavin protested, removing his hat, which had been interfering with his attempts to lean against the wall. "Think we've proven by now that it's hard to scare me off."

"Have we?" The Spy quirked an eyebrow. "I seem to remember you fleeing at the prospect of…what was the term again? 'Going steady?'" His smile widened.

"Hey, that's what they call it!" The marksman protested.

"That's what they call something, to be sure," Renaud drawled, casting his eyes once again about the messy room. "Tell me, how many women have you 'gone steady with'?"

"That's not—None of your business." The bushman scowled and folded his arms.

"How many men, then?"

"Wh—none! Bloody hell, I told you, none!"

"What you said," the Frenchman corrected him, "is that you _don't_ get involved with men. Not that you _didn't_. Just wanted to clarify. Is there something wrong with me being curious?"

"Well, well, no, but…" Gavin spluttered for words. "The whole point of you coming in here—"

"Was so I could be myself, non? It is in my nature to ask questions." He treated the Sniper to a dazzling smile, knowing that it would only make him more uncomfortable. It was time to step out of the comfort zone.

The Australian's fingers pressed heavily against his brow; he seemed to have a habit of hiding his face when he was flustered. "Yeah, but—this is about you coming to terms with yourself, Reno, not me."

Renaud's voice was quiet. "So there are things about yourself that you must come to terms with, then?"

After a moment of gaping silently at his visitor, Gavin was saved from answering by the coffee's preparation coming to an end. He hastened over to pour it into mugs, his back turned pointedly to the Spy. While he was looking away, the Frenchman repositioned himself again, trying many positions and finding none entirely satisfactory. He was experimenting with sprawling on his side when his host returned with two steaming mugs.

"Comfy there, Reno?" The Sniper snickered as the other man immediately straightened himself, accepting the cup of coffee that was offered to him.

"Adequately so," he coughed as he straightened his tie. He wanted to wait a moment to let the brew cool off.

"You sure? Nothing I can do to make you more comfortable?" Gavin was just trying to be helpful. He hadn't played a host for a while, if ever, that much was obvious, and he wanted his only friend in this godforsaken place to feel comfortable enough to be himself. Renaud knew that. He also knew that if he was truly being himself, he would take advantage of that statement. No, he chided himself, best to go slow, now…

"Yes, actually. Take those off."

"What?" Colour started draining from the bushman's face. "You want me to—"

"Your glasses. Take them off. Surely you do not need them indoors?" The idea of wearing shaded aviators in this dark van struck the Spy as ridiculous. Besides, the Sniper would be much easier to read if he could see his eyes.

"O-oh, right. Guess I don't…" Tentatively, he removed the glasses, setting them on top of his already discarded hat. Renaud drank him in. No hat, no glasses; he hadn't seen Gavin like this since their first meeting, and it was almost like seeing him naked. He loved it. And yes, his face was much easier to read now—at the moment, it radiated concern. "Anyway, Reno…what was up with that, back there? Cutting off that bloke's hand?

The Frenchman sniffed. "He bothered me."

"You in the habit of mutilating anyone that bothers you?" The Sniper sipped at his coffee, never taking his frowning eyes off of his guest. It was marvelous to think that behind the tinted glass, Gavin stared at him that much.

"Of course not!" He retorted, indignant. "But was especially repulsive. I don't have to tell you that—you're the one who struck the first blow; remember that, Gavin."

"'Course I remember," the bushman spat, "but there's a difference between giving a bloke the walloping he deserves and severing his limbs."

The Spy shrugged. "There is also a difference between insulting me and insulting someone I care about." The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could say them. Merde, he had forgotten that being Renaud Corbet came with a certain degree of carelessness and idiocy. He tried to cover the moment by sipping at his coffee, and found it entirely too strong for his tastes; it was all he could do not to spit it out all over the bedsheets. After swallowing awkwardly, he dared a glance up at his host.

But Gavin wasn't fazed at all—in fact, he nodded solemnly. "Wasn't right of him to say that about your mum," he agreed. "Considering how things have been…This is a rough place to get used to. We're all trying to figure out how to survive it, where we can stand, and with who… You'd just talked about your mum the day before, the memory was raw, and you were trying to do that stoic-Spy thing. I get it. Don't like that you got that unstable, but I get it."

Renaud just blinked for a moment, stunned, before shaking his head and adopting a sad little smile. "Do you?" He hadn't been talking about the other Spy's cracks at his mother, but the jabs at Gavin…

The Sniper just shrugged. "Even if I don't totally understand today, you can come back here any time you want. I mean it. Gonna need a friend to survive in this shithole." The bushman tried one of his famous grins, but it faltered. "We are, right? Friends?"

The Spy narrowed his eyes. His mother, the other Spy, the rules they were both trying not to talk about—all of those things crowded in the back of his mind like storm clouds, but it was difficult to focus on them. Here, in this van, in such close proximity to Gavin, everything else seemed far away. His persistently developing feelings for the other man, those were still fresh in his mind, an easily accessible part of who he was. Other things would come later. Right now, all he could think about were those long, strong limbs and that deep, rumbling voice, not to mention the heart of a man who, despite being a loner, invites someone else into his home just so he can have a chance to be himself. Friends? "For now," he replied coolly.

The bushman's face fell, although he tried to hide it. "J-just for now, huh? I guess, yeah, if we should wait until we know what teams we're assigned to before we can really—"

"You are going in the wrong direction," Renaud interrupted flatly. "We have squabbled over this friendship long enough. Obviously, we cannot be kept apart." He ventured another sip of coffee as his companion grew a relieved smile.

"Yeah, two peas in a pod, you and me," Gavin chuckled as he saw his guest grimace at the coffee. "You want some cream or sugar in that, fancy-pants?"

The Frenchman gave him a steely glare. "I am fine," he insisted, taking a long gulp of the brew. He gave a single cough after he got it all down, and then shot his eyes back to the Sniper as if daring him to say anything.

The Australian just shook his head, amused. "You're a funny sort, Reno. Did a good job of swallowing that, though. "

"One of my many talents," The Spy replied with an arch of one eyebrow. "You are very forward, for a man who claims no interest in other men."

"What the—" Gavin's eyes darted around, as if searching for any eavesdroppers who might overhear. "Why the hell do you keep bringing that up?"

"I told you," he responded evenly, setting down the half-empty mug. "I am curious."

The bushman stared at him as if he came from another planet: jaw dropped, eyes wide, mouth incredulous. "_Why?_" He repeated.

Renaud smirked. "Come now, I can't be the only one using my head here. Guess."

Gavin set down his own mug and pressed his fingers to his temple again, scrunching up his face in frustration and thought. "I dunno. My first guess would be that you—you've got a thing for me, but you already said you don't, so—"

"Did I?" The Spy whispered.

The Sniper froze.

"You…you laughed." The bushman's words were slow and heavy. "I said, 'You looked like you wanted to go steady,' and you laughed."

"And I would again," the Frenchman replied coolly. "It's a stupid phrase."

"So…so you laughed at 'go steady,' but you never said…never said you weren't…" The look on Gavin's face looked resembled one some great thinker would wear while pondering the creation of the universe. Renaud decided to ease the thought process along.

"I am very interested in you," he confirmed. It was shockingly easy to say, especially for something that he had sworn to himself he would never admit. Yes, that part was simple—now for the hard part. He locked his gaze with the Sniper's, not letting out another word until the other man met his eyes. "Are you…interested in me?"

For the first time since they had met, the bushman looked utterly helpless. With his parents, he had been hopeless, and with friendship, he had been confused, but this was a different sort of being lost; had he not been able to feel the dry desert air, Renaud would have sworn his companion was drowning. He opened and closed his mouth dumbly; the rest of his body was frozen.

Well, it wasn't the worst reaction.

"I…" Slowly, surely, Gavin started to force sounds out of his mouth. "I…I, I can't. Can't be. Interested."

"That's not what I asked," the Spy reminded him softly, trying hard to keep the growl out of his voice. He was close, closer than ever; it wouldn't do to scare him off. Gentle, Renaud, gentle. Shattering a few decades of self-perception is a difficult thing to do.

"Am I? I…" He seemed to think about it for a moment, then shook his head furiously. "I don't know. I don't want to know. I—" He shot his guest a pained look. "I _can't._"

"Why not?" The masked man murmured. "What's stopping you?"

"I just—look, Reno, you're a hell of a bloke. No questioning that. I just…Look, even if I was—even if I do—I mean—" He swore under his breath. "New job, new place, new people, new friend, yeah, but I'm starting to get old. Too old for new tricks. I can't—it's too much. I couldn't get used to it, with another man, I mean, I can barely imagine it, I—"

Renaud reached forward and grabbed his hand. His right hand, the one without the glove. The Sniper froze, stopped spluttering out words, and stared at the gloved fingers twining around his own. "What are you doing?" The bushman whispered. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Teaching you a new trick."

At that, the hand tried to jerk out of his grasp, but the Spy had a firm grip. He could feel the man's skin quiver, and he felt a pang of guilt—Gavin was nervous. Renaud couldn't blame him. After all, not an hour ago he had severed another man's hand, and even if his intentions with the Sniper were different, they could still be threatening. He knew that, so he did not move. He simply sat there and held the bushman's hand.

After a minute, Gavin's breathing calmed and his shaking stopped, although he still seemed uncomfortable. Ever so slightly, the Frenchman let his thumb begin to move, and once again, the Sniper tensed. Renaud just concentrated on the tiny motion of his gloved thumb against the bushman's warm, rough skin: back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, little circle, back and forth. He looked up—the marksman was frowning, but it seemed to be more out of cautious curiosity than anything else. The back and forths and little circles started to grow, until the thumb's range encompassed the whole back of the hand. Gavin bit his lip.

Moving slowly, so as not to spook him, the Spy added a second hand to the two clasped around each other. He gave the bushman a minute to get used to the additional mass of smooth leather and warmth, and then, carefully, he removed the first hand, letting the second hand's thumb stroke the Sniper's scarred skin. He brought his newly-freed fingers to his lips and, making sure that Gavin was watching, he closed his teeth around the cloth at his fingertips and started to tug. After a few deft pulls, his hand was naked, and he opened his jaws to drop the glove on the bed beside him. Still paying attention not to go too fast, he replaced the still-sheathed hand with the unsheathed one. As he removed the second glove with his teeth, he felt his bare skin slide against Gavin's. Cher dieu, it had already been far too long since he had felt a touch like that—too long for the Sniper, as well, it seemed. The bushman's eyes were wide and his nostrils were flared, but his expression amazed, not fearful, and his breathing was audible. It was beautiful.

Encouraged by his companion's reaction, Renaud reached out with his free arm and grabbed the bushman's other hand—the one that sported the fingerless glove. Gavin seemed startled, so he gave him another minute of just holding them, just holding both hands. Then his fingers started slithering, working their way slowly around the velcro strap that held that glove together. He rubbed gently in between the strap and the glove, slowly but surely disconnecting the velcro. The Sniper held his breath for the whole process. When the strap was undone, the Spy was tempted to pull off the bushman's glove with his teeth, as well—but he suspected that would be too much, too fast. Instead, he let his fingers rub circles on the skin right next to the glove, pushing it farther and farther off of Gavin's hand. The Sniper was much more sensitive there than he would have expected; after a minute and a half of this treatment he let out a sigh that was just two notches down from a full-out groan. Every now and then, Renaud flicked his eyes up to see how the bushman was doing—by this point, his eyes were screwed shut, his cheeks were flushed, and his breathing was almost heavy enough to be classified as panting. That sight alone took the Spy's breath away; he was so concentrated on the other man's face that he simply forgot, for a moment, to keep using his lungs.

He adjusted his grip on both hands, lacing their fingers together so that their palms touched. His thumbs didn't have as much room to trace patterns on the Sniper's skin, but he loved the sensation that came from gently rubbing their palms together. At first, the friction was barely noticeable, but after a minute or so he had set a good rhythm—until the bushman surprised him. Gavin's thumbs started making their own reluctant paths on Renaud's skin, and after a moment, his palms joined the fun. They slid and rubbed and traced and touched, and in the first time in—how long had it been? It seemed like forever. It seemed like there had never been anything else. For the first time since they began, the Spy dared to speak.

"Open your eyes, Gavin."

The Sniper's eyelids cracked open, then widened, and he stared for a long while at his own hands, as if not believing what they were doing—holding another man's hand, getting far too much enjoyment from such simple friction. His gaze slid upwards, met Renaud's, and held it. The Spy smiled. Gavin tried, but his face could only process so many feelings at once. The Frenchman leaned forward, aiming to plant a kiss on one of those big, strong hands.

Without warning, Gavin sprang back, stumbling among piles of debris until he backed into the door. Renaud stared. The Sniper was shaking again, and short of breath, and his eyes were wide with fear. What had he done wrong? They had been doing so well, he thought. Had he misinterpreted the whole thing? Had his friend simply been afraid and uncomfortable the entire time? He didn't know what to say.

Perhaps he would start with something simple. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I thought…I'm sorry."

Gavin was shaking his head. "No, no, I…It's fine, okay? It's fine, just…"

"It's not fine." Renaud scowled. "Look at you."

"I'm fine," the Sniper repeated, this time with some force in his voice. "I just, that was…"

"Too much."

"Well…yeah."

The Frenchman sighed and hung his head, borrowing the bushman's trick of rubbing his temples. He had ruined it. He had pushed too far. He had seen what he wanted to see in his friend and ignored everything else. At this point, he would be very lucky indeed if he still had a friend, let alone…

"But, you know," Gavin had stopped shaking, and his breathing was starting to slow. "Think I could get used to that."

Renaud's head shot up. He stared with disbelief at the Sniper, who cracked a weak smile. "You—you do not have to. Please, don't think for a moment that you need to. If all you want is a friend, then—"

"I don't know what I want. I was pretty sure I didn't want…whatever the hell that just was, until it happened. Now…" He shook his head. "I don't know."

The Spy nodded. It made sense. It was a hard thing to realize about oneself, after all these years—especially when most of those years had been lonely ones. Gavin needed time to think, and to be honest, so did he. A haven for himself, Renaud Corbet, in the Sniper's van? Possible romance? Extensive rule-breaking? Truth be told, he hadn't thought about it that much, especially not in the recent days of being the hard and ruthless Spy. "Tell me, when you know. Tell me, and I'll come back here, if you don't mind. Your van is already growing on me, you know."

The Australian joined him in nodding. "Yeah, sounds good. I'll let you know soon as I do. And if I need to talk to you beforehand, well, I know where you live." He gave a little dry chuckle, which sent Renaud's spirits soaring. His friend did not hate him. He had a friend. He might have more than a friend. "Speaking of which, think maybe now's a good time for you to be getting on home, Reno. We need space, time, and a good night's sleep."

The Spy agreed. Gavin led him back through the desert, over the cold, dark sands, and neither of them said a word. It was a reflective silence. At one point, the Sniper stopped dead in his tracks to look up and stare at the stars, and the Frenchman walked right into him, slamming into his back. Startled, the bushman looked behind him to see the his companion sprawled on the ground. Chuckling, he offered a hand to help Renaud up, and to the Spy's great surprise, he didn't let go for the rest of the walk. They marched on in the quiet and held each other's hands, despite what they had said and thought about needing time.

When the base came into view, it was Renaud who stopped. "We should part ways here," he warned. "It would not be good for us to be seen together, especially like this." He squeezed the Sniper's hand.

Gavin nodded. "Right. I'd better head on back."

Neither of them let go. Finally, the Spy laughed and placed a single, small kiss on the back of the other man's hand. "Thank you for walking me home, _monsieur_," he teased, "but I assure you I can make it from here." The bushman let out an embarrassed little chuckle and, after a moment, they turned and walked their separate ways.

Even as Renaud slipped back into the hardened veneer of the Spy, he couldn't help but hope for dreams that night.


End file.
